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.