Onward and Upward to the Heritage Sites (part 2: Magical Hampi)

The second day in Hampi we opted to go guide-free because frankly, as nice as he was, Manju was more repetitive than informative. It couldn’t have been a better day. We started with a hike up Mattanga hill. The rocks had steps carved into them making the steep climb less of a challenge. At the top, the ruins of another ancient temple stood dilapidated. It was definitely off of the beaten path. We climbed onto its roof and looked out over the valley; the temple complexes below us looked even more impressive and the thick groves of coconut and banana trees surrounding them gave us the feeling that we’d just discovered a lost empire. The always present haze throughout the valley (which Champaka predicts is a result from nearby mining) made it more mystical. To the north we could see the Tungabhadra River snaking past temples, small islands and villages. We used this view to map out our next steps—we’d explore another huge temple complex at the base of the hill and then trace our way back to the main market through the skeletons of other ancient market colonnades, across rocky paths, and past another monolithic sculpture (this one of Nandi). Along our way, we stopped in the shade of leaning boulders and met a local stone-cutter selling his miniature carvings, which he filed away on between customers.

We were eager to see Anegondi, an ancient, but living village north of the river. The best way to get there was by boat. So we scoped out how and where to do this, received lots of mixed messages, walked down a dirt foot path toward the river and finally saw what appeared to be a large circular basket approaching the shore. Two men were at the front (if you can call it that) paddling and three men on their motorcycles were behind them. I laughed out loud! I mean really the boat looked like a fruit basket on steroids. It seemed inconceivable that it would be the means to transport both human and vehicular cargo. But it was and as soon as it reached the shore, (which was the flat boulder were standing on), the paddlers jumped out, tilted the edge of the boat down and instructed the cyclist off one by one. It was a very efficient system. So we boarded it and right behind us two motorcycles and their owners rode on. We were a well put together lot. Champaka and I (the only two women on board) were perched on either side of the rounded edges, and Dad kneeled in the center between the two men and their bikes. We could have been an advertisement for Honda. Once we were in the boat (which I later found out are called coracles), we could tell how they were constructed. Bamboo is used for the frame, then it’s wrapped with woven plastic—either the kind that is used for large feed bag or the bags themselves—and then it’s sealed with tar. And the tar does come off on your pants for the record.

On the other side, we paid our captain we paid our captain 30 rupees for the three of us (equivalent to sixty cents) and tried to find our way to the village. An old, abandoned fort overlooked the river showing signs that the empire of Hampi had crossed the river, too. Three skinny, long-legged boys with the biggest hazel eyes I’d ever seen came up to us to help us find our way. One of them led us through the narrowest road lined with tidy adobe homes painted bright white and trimmed in shades of blue. Old women on their tiny porches and stoops watched us pass by. This was unlike any of the villages we had seen on our journey so far. There was a calm and peacefulness that I hadn’t felt since the morning we left the homestay (before the business men were awake). As we got closer into town, the boy left us at what he thought was the home the woman who had made a business out of rice fiber products. It wasn’t, but the owner politely told Champaka where to go and had another older boy escort us. He let Champaka know that he was in a hurry, so we didn’t dawdle even though we were passing many photo ops. We found the rice fiber store next to a quaint tourist-oriented café—the only two commercial uses geared at tourists—and went inside. It turns out the business is a non-profit aimed at using local, replaceable materials and a craft that has been used for generations in this village to provide income for the villagers. The shopkeeper rushed us along to make our purchases because she was in a hurry. It seemed out of place that all of the people we met in this sleepy village were in such a hurry. After purchasing some gifts, we headed to a temple on the hill we’d heard about, passing up offers to take a rickshaw. At the main intersection of the village we passed an enormous wooden chariot, much like the stone one we’d seen the day before but taller, and the real thing! It was such an unexpected sight, but seemed to be treated as just another piece of the streetscape to the old men standing around it.

As we walked away from the village life and past lush rich paddies lined with coconut trees, we discussed the future of this village. A new bridge, about two-thirds complete had loomed over us as we took our boat ride. Though it was opposed and stalled for many years by UNESCO, it has now been given the go ahead. Once Hampi traffic has easy access to this village, the nature of it is sure to change, not to mention the coracle boat business.

About 5 kilometers outside of the village we saw the signs to the temple and fort. It was just the right timing because the sun was starting to down. We had to share the narrow road up the steep hill with cows returning home after a day of grazing. At the top as a living shrine and men in golden-colored robes were chanting. But we weren’t to the fort yet, which would allow us to look out over the valley and river. A shirtless young white tourist muttering something about sacrificing his shoes was also in search of the fort. Together, we finally got there. At the top of the hill, surrounded by massive rock formations, we did the closest I’ve come to bouldering to get to the top of a tall rock just in time for the perfect sunset view.

But we couldn’t relax for long. The boat captain said he’d be there until 7 p.m. and it was already after 6. We booked it down the hill hoping we’d find a rickshaw at the base. We were in luck and were whisked back to the rivers edge. The shore was packed with people from the village. We had heard that a special concert was going to be held at one of the ruins that night (and had seen it being set up); apparently, many of the villagers were planning on attending. The rush everyone was in finally made sense. We tentatively climbed on board with a couple of other families behind us. Then a couple more got on and couple of men after that. It was getting to be so packed and low in the water, I didn’t think we could fit another body on board. But they did. A toddler got passed over the edge and a couple more adults joined us. They asked Dad to stand up which meant he had nothing to hold onto except the other passengers. And they all did hold each other up, including Dad. We made it to the other side in less than 10 minutes—taking more time to board than actually travel. Only once we reached the shore did Champaka release the arm of the young girl who stood in front of her. And off we all went to the concert.

The setting was enough to draw you in. One of the ancient ruins was lit up and white-covered chairs for a full symphony orchestra were arranged in front of it. The famous Indian classical musician and composer, L. Subramanian was playing along with his wife, son and daughter. They were joined by the Leipzig Philharmonic Orchestra (from Germany) as part of the traveling Lakshminarayana Global Musical festival. Even though we arrived an hour and a half after the show was supposed to have begun, we hadn’t missed a thing. The power was out due to a failed generator. So we walked down the red carpet laid out for the event and found seating right in front. A group of boys excited they were sitting next to foreigners offered us their snacks as we waited for another half hour for the lighting to be resolved. The lights began to flicker, and about 30 or so pale Germans dressed in tuxedos and black dresses took their seats in front of us. To my Dad’s disgust, the orchestra played Tsaichovski’s Fifth Symphony. He leaned over to me and whispered, “My parents used to listen to this and I’d fall asleep to it. I can’t stand it!” I had to ask him if he was joking because it sounded like my complaints about Bach and Beethoven, which also resulted from my parents’ musical taste and childhood associations.

After at least forty minutes, the classical Indian musicians came out, led by L. Subramanian’s teenage son. They were great and I was instantly energized. Then the orchestra returned to the stage and together they played the Freedom Symphony, accompanied by L. Subramanian’s famous wife, Kavita. The symphony is a tribute to Gandhi and Independence. Kavita’s voice literally brought tears to my eyes, it was so rich and heartfelt. Sitting there below the glowing temple, surrounded by a mix of tourists and villagers of all ages, and hearing the strange union between these typically separate genres of music was the perfect end to a wonderful experience in such a mystical place.

Onward and Upward to the Heritage Sites (part 1: Hampi)

On January 1, 2009 we got off to an early start, made our way back down the mountain to Chickmagalur, had an authentic greasy dosa at a local hole in the wall, and dropped Anil off at the bus station so he could head back to Bangalore. He writes/draws a daily cartoon in one of Bangalore’s papers, TheMirror, and couldn’t take the next week off to sight see with us. The rest of us headed further north to Hampi, the ancient Hindu empire that flourished between the 6^th and 14^th centuries. Champaka described Hampi as a mystical place with massive stone temples amidst huge rock formations. UNESCO apparently agrees and designated it a World Heritage Site. After 8 hours in the car, I was ready to be amazed. We pulled up to our hotel in dusty, hectic Hospet, the closest commercial hub to Hampi and offering more accommodations, and I was pleasantly surprised. The hotel was grand. We had officially arrived in tourist land. Doormen and bag handlers bearing cold fruit drinks greeted us. We checked in, were escorted through a courtyard wrapped by two semi-circular 4-story banks of rooms and landscaped with a “D”esigned fountain made of black granite. Up the glass the elevator we went to our “over the top” rooms (in my dad’s words).

Because we had just finished an 8-hour drive, we didn’t want to get back in the car (which we would have had to do to see anything), so we treated ourselves to an early meal at the hip rooftop restaurant/bar called Waves. They weren’t joking either-- everything at the place had a wave motif, which we found a bit amusing since we were in the land of rocks. We sampled lots of South Indian breads and “gravy” dishes (any saucy dish is classified as a gravy) and watched the sky turn pink. By now I had gotten used to eating most of my meals with roti, naan, paratha (a softer and usually stuffed type of naan) as the utensil to grab whatever vegetable dish we were eating. One of my favorites is Lady Fingers (okra) prepared in a spicy gravy. We liked Waves so much and the wait staff was so eager to have us return to our choice of table, that we came back later for drinks and snacks.

The next morning we arranged for a guide and set off to spend the day exploring the ruins. As we approached large, golden brown rock outcroppings began to appear between the fields and palm trees. We were warned that it would be very hot, but when we met our guide, Manju, there was a cool breeze blowing. We started at the temple of Ganesha --the elephant god. A huge stone Ganesha (at least two-stories in height) sat in the middle of the open air structure, held up with finely carved columns. Now, please forgive my ignorance when it comes to Hindu practices and the detailed tales of the thousands of gods and their associations. We were beginning to get a better sense from Champaka, but the day with Manju was my first in depth lesson. He explained that every god has somebody (usually an animal or combination of human/animal) to watch over him. Ganesha's is the mouse! I was delighted to hear that the elephant and mouse friendship goes way back!

[Continued from part 1: just a taster...]

From there we climbed on to a massive slab of gently rounded rock. At the top, we could see at least 10 more temples of the same size of the one honoring Ganesha situated across the boulders. Each one had ornately carved columns reminding me of my architectural history days when we had to learn each element of the Greek and Roman structures. Here, in addition to understanding the various architectural forms that represent Hindu architecture in the 6^th Century, we were learning about all of the Hindu gods that were honored in each of the shrines. Luckily, three main gods got most of the attention so we only had to learn who they were, which symbols were used to represent them (and still are used today), which animal (or human-animals) watches over each god, and how each temple related to the others around it. The entire Hampi complex is spread out over 26 kilometers, so this was just the tip of the iceberg! And, it was getting hotter.

Luckily we had two full days here and didn’t have to try to squeeze it all in one day. Per my norm, I tuned in and out during the explanations, which Manju seemed to repeat at regular intervals, and snapped away at carving after carving. Each one depicted something different, from floral designs, gods, animal gods, goddesses, and animals. Most of the shrines we visited were for Shiva, who is protected by Nandi, the bull. So in the center of all temples dedicated to him, a statue of Nandi (in various states of disrepair and glory) sat staring into the doorway of the innermost shrine where the stone idol of Shiva once stood (very few of the temples had the idol of the god itself remaining). After awhile, this patiently waiting bull reminded me of dogs everywhere staring at the front door waiting for their owners to come home.

As we continued down the hill, two huge shikaras (AKA gopuras, AKA tiered tower gateway) came closer into view. They were part of the complex’s largest shrine (also to Shiva) and look like a cross between a wedding cake and a behive—this one is 56 meters high and each level gets slightly shorter than the one below it so it appears muc taller. This one was carved with women in provocative poses, some overtly sexual. The temple inside was a must see for all the tourists and pilgrims. It required an entrance fee and because it is a living shrine, everyone must remove their shoes. We entered through the large opening at the base of the shikara and into a colonnaded courtyard. The first thing you notice is there’s an excited crowd of people just to the right partially blocking the entry. The second thing you notice is there’s a very large, speckled elephant donned with a majestic hat and sash standing in the corner, surrounded by the excited crowd waiting to be blessed. The elephant receives coins and bananas in its trunk from the visitors and in exchange touches the top of their heads with its trunk. Various guides encouraged me to be blessed, but I declined. It seemed forced. If an elephant’s gonna bless me, it’ll be in my dreams, not with one foot tethered by a chain. The third thing you notice is the impressive temple at the center of the courtyard directly inline with the entrance—this one has columns in the shape of rearing animals which define the worship hall.

Apparently the monkeys had claimed this temple as their own. They walked in a procession across the lintels, scampered up the ornately carved door frames, almost always with a tiny one in the lead creating a game out of it. The pilgrims stood in line to enter the shrine, while the pale-footed tourists milled about snapping shots of the carvings on every surface. In the middle of it, a woman stretched herself out on temple floor (the plinth for those of you who want to be specific) from head to toe to pay homage to Shiva.

Back outside, the ancient colonnade of the original market remains and is filled in with new stalls and storefronts welling a mix of handicrafts, clothing and cheap touristy gadgets. It was getting so hot that I decided to have my first fresh coconut. The juice was hardly sweet at all, but it cooled me down enough to get back in the car and drive on to the next monument. This one was an enormous monolithic carving of one of Vishnu’s 10 incarnations—the man-lion called Narasimha. Staring at this mammoth piece of carved stone amidst flocks of Indian school children, western tourists, and Hindu families made me wonder how long it took its creators to carve back in the 6^th Century. They certainly had their pick of choice rocks to work with, but the size and detail of these carvings is phenomenal. All this sight seeing gets you tired. So to get out of the sun, we went back to the market and stopped for lunch in a little open-air restaurant that offered an unbelievable assortment of types of food, including South Indian (no surprise), Chinese (typical for about half the places we’d been), Italian, Israeli, American and Tibetan! I chose the momos (the Tibetan/Bhutanese equivalent to the potsticker), which had been one of my favorite meals back in Bhutan. Champaka ordered lasagna! We weren’t disappointed.

It’s almost overwhelming to write about all of the temples, monuments, bathing pools that we saw that day. There were so many, some a bit more refined, some more dilapidated, but I noticed that each of them had a particular group of animals that had claimed it as their home. At the Zenana enclosure (women’s quarters) home to the delicate Lotus Palace and ridiculously formal elephant stables, a community of tiny, grey chipmunks had taken over. The whole time we were there, they squeaked and squeezed in and out of the tiny crevices throughout the enclosure’s stone walls. At the Vittala temple, dedicated to Vishnu and protected by the half man/half eagle god, Garuda, pigeons had informally made it their home, which you might think is a species unworthy of such grandeur, but they’re not common in places we visited, and were less obtrusive than the monkeys and chipmunks. This temple was my favorite. Instead of thick solid columns, each massive support was carved away to form as many as 12 thin columns. If you tap on the granite, each column plays a slightly different musical note. The guards aren’t supposed to tap on them due to erosion, but they put on a short performance anyway. It’s said that in the temple as whole, 56 notes can be played. In front of the main structure sat a granite chariot led by a pair of granite elephants. The stone wheels were once able to spin in place, but they were cemented for preservation’s sake.

We continued on looking at carving after carving until just before sunset—which is a big deal here given the opportunity for glorious views—so we rushed over to every guide’s hill for sunset viewing and joined the herds of westward facing tourists and monkeys scattered across the boulders. This became our goal every evening—to climb a hill and watch the brilliant red ball disappear into the hazy horizon.

Heading North in the South

On day three, Anil (Champaka's husband), Champaka, Dad and I left Bangalore to head north into the mountains above the small city of Chickmagalur (translation: younger daughter). Our journey began at 9 a.m. Indian time, which was roughly 9:45 when we were picked up by our driver, Raju, who would spend the next 8 days with us, but say almost nothing despite Champaka's attempts to engage. We had a 6 hour drive along a 2-lane highway used by all. It gave me plenty of time to check out the landscape, daydream about life in this foreign land compared to my own back in the Bay Area, think about potential New Year's resolutions, and doze off. These activities were interrupted regularly with the sounds of honking horns--most often our own as Raju warned the goat herder, slow-moving rickshaw, or overloaded cow-drawn cart that we were passing. I became very familiar with head-on traffic and got used to (for the most part) the difference in timing and space management when it comes to the India's implementation of the "share the road" concept. About an hour or two outside of Bangalore's outer rings, we began to pass rice paddies, coconut and banana trees, and fields filled with grazing cows, water buffalo and goats. Every thing we passed generated at least two or three questions from Dad and me . Champaka and Anil did a great job identifying the plants and explaining the ins and outs to us. Something I doubt I could in my own country.

After passing through the noisy, packed streets of Chickmagalur, we began the climb up a windy dirt road to the Bhadra forest. The slope of the hillside was especially noticeable with the tops of pole-thin trees swaying around us, and the road was so narrow. It made me appeciate that we weren't visiting during the rainy season! After about an hour of driving and passing only a few other cars (carefully) and a guarded forest entrance, we turned into a narrow driveway packed with other SUVs. We had arrived a our destination: Tex Woods.

Tex Woods was advertised as a Homestay, which is basically a B&B but is sited on a working tea or coffee plantation. The owners choose to rent out separate cottages on their estates to guests. As we were shown to our rooms, Champaka's face grew more and more serious. It wasn't what she had expected. The large house with rooms attached and fronting on to a shared, meagerly furnished terrace (overlooking a spectacular view of the lush valley below and distant mountain ranges between layers of fog--i might add), contradicted what the travel agent had confirmed. We were supposed to have a private terrace. It wouldn't have mattered too much but the SUVs in the driveway below belonged to a herd (yes, herd) of loud men who had decided to come to up to this remote location to celebrate the New Year away from their wives and children. Nice.

Our hosts had been waiting for us for lunch, so we made our way downstairs past all the men to the dining room. The lunch spread looked impressive and tasted great! But there was no comfortable place to sit down and eat with our small group. Instead of tables and chairs, there were just chairs lined up along the parameter of the rooms, which made it hard to talk to each other. Even more disappointed with this additional lack of charm, Champaka decided to discuss some other options with the oh-so-cheery manager, who, I noticed, was dressed in a brightly polka-doted sari (a pattern I had yet to see). It didn't work. There weren't other rooms or other dining arrangements, so instead of sticking around the terrace (which was now fully occupied by the smoking, guffawing, belching men playing cards), we took a walk out to the plantation to see how coffee is made.

One of the employees (male, of course; everywhere we'd go the staff of all hotels, restaurants and even most of the tourist/heritage sites were male unless perhaps they were behind kitchen doors and we couldn't see them) walked us down the red dirt road to the plantation. It consisted of one huge machine that flushes and tumbles the already fermented berry around with rushing water to remove the skin from the seed (or "bean"). The skins are carried away by the water into open channels that collect down the hill into huge, mucky concrete tanks that will later be used as fertilizer for the plants. The pale blonde beans are collected by the workers and spread across brick plazas to dry before getting sent off to be roasted and packaged.

From there we continued our walk along the dirt road to the coffee plants. Until then, I really had not given much thought to what the substance that I drink every morning and often every afternoon looks like. It turns out the coffee bean grows on a tallish shrub (5-6 feet or so). The peanut m&m-sized berries grow in clusters and range in color from yellow, green, red, and brown depending on the bush. If that wasn't exciting enough, we caught glimpses of a family of monkeys swinging from tree to tree! [Please note this was our first non-urban, non-domesticated animal sighting--Day 3.] I then learned that Champaka was not a fan of these creatures--they can be quite agressive if they've been around a lot of humans and they see you carrying something they might like.

Back at the hotel we learned that the manager had a plan to lure the men down from the terrace with a bonfire and music. Her trick worked and we had space to sit down on the terrace, watch the last bit of sun go down, drink some Kingfisher, and learn how to play carrom. It's a common game played in India. There's a 3'x3' square board surrounded by short walls and a hole at each corner. Twelve checker-sized pieces (half black, half white and one red) are placed in a circle in the middle of the board. The object is to flick your pieces into the holes first. The red piece gets you extra points. Let me just say that it's harder than it looks. It takes some skill. Flicking your fingers isn't that easy, you know. That and teaching Anil and Champaka how to play rummy kept us entertained for the evening. We had another very tasty meal and made arrangements for an early morning safari. We opted to hire a guide with a jeep thinking it would allow us to see more.

Early the next morning our driver was waiting for us. It was cold enough when I left the room to convince me to bring my jacket along. We packed into the back and bumped back down the mountain to the entry of the wildlife reserve. Not only did this jolting ride knock the sleep right out of me and continuously bang metal poles against my head, but it was cold. I mean colder than I thought it'd ever get in India. It made me wish I had brought my wool hat and sweater that I left in my room (which I hadn't even intended to bring with me on this trip but accidentally forgot to take out of my bag in the hours I unpacked my New Mexico clothes and packed by India clothes back in Oakland). Still, though, we were going to see wildlife and I had convinced everyone that the early morning safari would be best. There are 26 tigers in this forest and a species of deer that is called Barking Deer. The informational signs say they have canine teeth, which made us wonder how they'd be part of the deer family at all. I was eager to see both.

Not long after we drove into the reserve, our driver stopped to point out young deer (regular ones, no special teeth) and we oohed quietly. It was easy to miss them since the morning light was streaming through the tall, thin teak trees and they blended in. The whole place was quite serene. Then not much further along he spotted a tiny little brown creature in the distance. That was the Barking Deer. It stood no more than 2 feet off the ground and looked like and deer with a less than pretty face. We were told that it was full-grown. It didn't bark or move or anything. It just stood there chewing and watching us. We carried on, saw several more families of deer, and came to a large tree in the middle of a large square concrete planter box. The driver turned off the car which signaled to us that we were meant to get out. We walked over to see this 400-year old tree that had been identified and saved from deforesting in previous years. After we had a chance to walk around it and observe its height and grandeur, the noise of approaching cars interrupted the silence. Three SUVs showed up and out spilled our friends from the hotel, making so much noise that I'm sure all animals in a 5-mile radius heard them. Our driver suggested that we wait quietly til they left and see if any other animals came out, but I figured we'd better get ahead of them so they weren't right on our tail the whole way. So we moved on. But moving on basically meant driving out of the reserve. We did manage to spot the tail end of one majestic Sambar (another kind of deer with a huge set of antlers) and another Barking Deer (which did a funny frantic turn-around, but did not bark) before leaving the gates.

The best adventure of our stay at Tex Woods happened later that afternoon when we arranged to do a trek up to the top of the mountain. The cook, Bijar, was our guide and we followed him up steep footpaths, through two other plantations, with the traditional mud walls and tiled-roofs that Champaka had expected to see at Tex Woods. As we climbed, we came across many more monkeys doing gymnastics through the trees, all sorts of animal dens (where had we been on the walk with him in the morning we were sure to have seen families of deer, and maybe even a wild boar), tumeric plants, pepper (as in pepper corn) vines creeping up the trees, cardomon seeds (which we sampled). Bijar took us off the path toward a creek to point many of these plants out and offer them for tasting. Near the top of our climb, we passed more coffee plants where a group of kind and interested women and girls were working. They called out that they'd like a photograph taken. So we stopped and they all rushed over (to the disappointment of their supervisor) and posed for me while I photographed them. I showed them the digital image and they giggled and made fun of each other. They asked Champaka if we would join them for lunch since we must be starving after the big climb. She kindly said no that we had eaten and we climbed the last bit of the way up to overlook the entire valley below us. As we walked back down, we practically walked right under another family of monkeys swinging from one tree to the next. I muttered something like, "I wish I could travel like monkeys," which made Champaka burst out laughing. We have a lot in common when it comes to architecture and planning and our perspectives on social and gender issues, but less so when it comes to animals, which amuses us both.

That night was the big night: New Year's Eve! We spent it reflecting on the year, improving our skills at carrom, and sharing our resolutions and chocolate from around the world! It was a great way to bring in 2009!

Bangalore's Old and New (part 2)

As I was saying, to really give us a sense of the contrast between old and new Bangalore, Champaka made our next stop as different as possible. The rickshaw dropped us off in front of a huge, shiny glass mall owned by United Breweries (the company who makes Kingfisher beer). We entered through security gates, had our bags checked and proceeded up the grand escalators, passing the poshest boutiques you find all over the world. At the top we walked out onto a rooftop plaza surrounded by four towers that are meant to replicate four famous towers--though the only identifiable one to me was the squat version of the Empire State Building. The plaza was cool and far from the cacophany of horns and congestion that had just surrounded us. Here I wasn't the only westerner with an oversized camera around my neck. Posh cafes and outdoor restaurants attracted the tourists (the first we'd seen all day) and lots of Indian families out to enjoy their Sunday afternoon. We sat down at an outdoor cafe and relaxed with coffee (in ultra modern china). Despite our probing conversation about the woes of planning, I couldn't help but be distracted by the non-stop fun that the interactive fountain at the center of the plaza was providing kids of all ages. Each vertical stream of water fluctuated its height at irregular intervals. Daring kids made their way to stand near it for a cool down and almost inevitably they'd get surprised with a full stream in the face. We were in the middle of discussing how to face the obstacles that planning complicated urban environments brings on without getting burned out or giving up when I was was distracted by the bottom of the oh so chic water glass I was drinking out of. The label on the glass said "nambe." I shrieked, "this is a nambe glass, the New Mexican brand," to try to explain my excitement to Champaka. Actually, nambe is a pueblo in NM that has made itslef famous by creating top design lines of metal and glassware. It's a wedding gift I love to give people even though they're not registered for it. And so on the roof of this mall in Bangalore, I had my second it's-a-small-(commercial)world-after-all moment. The first being at the top of Table Mountain in Cape Town two years ago when Oakland-based singer, Goapele was played on the bar's stereo. Yes, I know it's just glassware, but it's New Mexican and we're in a far away place and I like that sort of thing.

Alas, after watching enough sopping children shout with glee and feeling like we had made a dent in trying to resolve the struggle of a planner amuck uncontrollable politics and processes, we left the touristy oasis and returned to busy Bangalore. Right next to the mall is a huge park left over form British rule filled with amazing shade trees, dense bamboo groves and strolling families in brightly colored saris. Almost seconds after entering the park we spotted a monkey (note: wildlife was spotted on Day 1) and a white-headed kite (looked like a miniature bald eagle). I had no idea what it was other than a bird of prey but after some discussion back home we came up with that name. Sorry, I didn't bring my Birds of Bangalore book with me.

We ended our first day with a great sampling of South Indian foods from the four states that make up the south. Champaka and Anil took us to swanky restaurant in walking distance from their home that had converted a beautiful modern residence into an restaurant with an urban garden setting.

On day two we headed out to the outskirts of Bangalore to see what has put the city on the international radar: the technology parks. But first we stopped by to meet Anil's parents.

Aside from sampling all sorts of delicious snacks that Anil's mom had made, the highlight was seeing the home that Anil beautifully designed for them. The house is complete with a water harvesting system (so the ample rainfall that Bangalore gets every year doesn't go unused) and made of sun-baked bricks (so it keeps cool even during the city's unbearable months). The kitchen and living room have a 2-story vaulted ceiling which keeps the air circulating and as Anil's father emphatically told us several times--they don't need a fan! Aside from functionality, the house has a playful grace about it with brightly framed windows and an elegant metal and wood staircase leading up to the bedrooms. It felt like a loft you'd find in a transitioning industrial area without the pretention. It made me want to return to my childhood dream of designing my own home.

Our next stop was at the huge security gate in front of Bangalore's first tech center. Apparently, security has increased since the Mumbai attacks; the guards said we couldn't enter without a permit. Despite Champaka's repeated explanation, "I'm an urban planner," we were turned away and instead looked at the center as outsiders along a perimeter road. This vantage point turned out to be the most telling way to experience this fairly recent type of development. On one side of the road was a 12-foot fence topped with rows of barbed wire; on the other were the portable vending booths selling the same basic items that we saw in the Old City. At the edge of the center's walls is what is left of the village that had occupied the area for generations. Dirt roads, one-story shops, open drainage, and raggedy dogs were what stood out to me during our quick visit. The level of poverty juxtaposed with the glassy, pristine (but less than pleasing design-wsie) office buildings beyond was striking. Apparently villages all around Bangalore's outskirts have been uprooted or wiped out completely due to the new tech parks.

Later, at another tech center, we wised up to the security guard's questioning and were able to get in. We had entered another world. Every blade of grass and shrub had been manicured just so. The paved streets were lined with brand spanking new lighting,modern glass office buildings and sculptures. It looked good from an architectural perspective, but it felt like an alter universe with security guards posted every 100 feet. But, we weren't the only intruders. I spotted another white-headed kite perched on one of the overly designed mullions and staring at its reflection in the mirrored glass.

I'm curious to see what the next 10-20 years will do to increase these differences in Bangalore's two worlds or perhaps the new money coming in will be used to help make improvements citywide.

Bangalore's Old and New (part 1)

Determined to heed the rules of the all-knowing travel advisors (who I'll continue to refer to as "they" throughout the trip...you'll know it when I say things like, "they say you shouldn't eat thin-skinned fruit."), we ignored our bodies requests to go straight to sleep. Instead, we took off to explore Bangalore's Old City. We got there on a rickshaw--one of my favorite means of transportation (second to its smaller filipino cousin, the tuktuk). It's basically a semi-enclosed tricycle with a bench behind the driver that can fit three narrow butts. Something about the enclosure makes you feel relatively safe despite the chaos (systematic chaos, if you will) that surrounds you. The thing you can't forget when you step foot outside of it (or anything really) is to watch out for a fastmoving something--be it on 4-, 3-, 2-wheels, or foot or hoof. This is especially true in the Old City where a network of narrow paths take mixed use to the extreme. It's still home to many of the trades that made it a commercial hub and there's not a tourist to be seen.

I should say now that my dad and I were very lucky. Not only does Champaka lead tours of the Old City in her free time, she also was part of the team that wrote Bangalore's Master Plan, so we had planner insight fit for kings (or planner geeks and history lovers), which you'll no doubt be hearing more about!

The densely packed streets are lined with narrow buildings (some no more than 5-feet wide) stretching up 4-5 stories. Literally every square inch of space is filled up with something functional--a shrine (on wheels, in one case), shops of all kinds, weaving factories, etc. We walked past lounging cows, ancient bikes overloaded with coconuts and manned by vendors bearing machetes (I think sickle is the appropriate term, but I like the image of machete), and portable vending tables selling everything from plastic gadgets to freshly roasted peanuts. Shrines decorated with brightly painted animal gods were tucked in amidst the shops. To my enjoyment, cow and monkey gods seemed to be featured most prominently.

Next we went to explore the old farmers market. Think crowded, packed, non-stop movement: a sensory overload. We crammed our way into the sea of shoppers and checked out all of the fresh fruits, veggies, and spices. Champaka led us through the main courtyard and into the old structure where the flower market occupies the entire first floor and the upper floor is home to all items you'd ever need to decorate your shrine or use in your kitchen. My favorite for-sale items were the conical mounds of brilliantly colored kumkum (the colored powder that many Hindu dot on their foreheads). Though we weren't really there to buy anything, the colors, smells, and activity were well worth the trip.

To really give us a sense of the contrast between old and new Bangalore, Champaka made our next stop as different as possible.

To be continued...