The Virtues of Vanity, Caprice, and Sloth

Saturday was a quiet day as I intended initially to go to Nandi Hills or at least visit some famous temples around town, but was stymied by TATA Docomo’s 3G network being off the whole morning. Fearful of wandering without Google maps directions to the bus system, I instead went to the library to study and work in the morning, and by chance at lunch ran into Dr. Bhullar. He told me of a place nearby to buy quality dress shirts for men, which I sorely needed to replenish my stash here (I hadn’t brought enough of those things for work, it seems), as well as to buy high quality fabric on the cheap.

I followed his directions to a shopping complex right beside the Forum Mall, which was called Shopper’s Stop. Apparently it’s a high-end fashion retailer (eek, what have I become). And for the first time in my life I busied myself trying on various shirts, as choosy as any woman. Ironically enough, I felt an odd kinship to Mat Cauthon, whose chapters I had been covering in my audiobook, emphatically claiming to still be the same farmboy despite dressing in fancy robes. “There’s nothing wrong with a good coat for a man.” In the end, I picked out a dark red one and a white one with blue stripes. I would have preferred a different pattern in the end, but the fit of the shirts (size 39 from Austin Reed) was great and the material felt solid. I hadn’t heard of the brand before, but my contacts and wikipedia assure me that it’s solidly upper mid tier.

On the way back, I stopped to get some miscellaneous shopping done, picking up snacks for the next day, batteries for my shaver, and soap.

The next day I awoke early to catch the first bus at 8:30 to Nandi Hills. It was quite an ordeal asking around and trying to find the mysterious platform 13 where all the websites assured me the bus would depart from. Most Indians are useless with these inquiries, but eventually I found that I would have to leave the city bus stand and go across the road to the KSRTC, or long-distance inter-city transport stand. Bummer. Even there, I couldn’t find a sign for platform 13, instead standing between signs 5 and 14, asking around for the bus. Unfortunately all the signs were in Kannada (not even Hindi!) which I couldn’t read. It was only by $deity’s grace that I caught sight of a sign saying that certain platforms were in a new area a bit of a walk away. Great. It’s good that I arrived early anticipating this kind of problem.

And what do you know. As I walked through the tunnel, my eye caught a glimmer of a folded 100 rupee bill on the ground. I quickly, and hopefully surreptitiously, bent down to pick it up. It reminds me of the time in Dublin Airport when Wayne and I (well, mostly me) picked up 40 euros in bills right off the ground. This haul wasn’t nearly as lucrative, though the purchasing power is probably comparable. The find would end up paying for the round trip bus ticket to and from the Hills.

I bought a samosa for 8 rupees to augment my brunch and hopped on the bus. Again, it was labeled only in Kannada, but I was able to confirm with the conductor that it was heading to the Nandi Hills. What happened en route was a very irksome 2 hours of me trying to shut the window (to prevent dust from blowing into my face) and the person beside me on the aisle seat opening it for the breeze.

Luckily he got off a stop or two before the hills, and I was free to enjoy the marvelous open plains leading up to the hills. Then, from the wide expanse opened up a spire into the sky, with a narrow ledge of a road leading up to the top. The bus carefully honked its way around the corners up the slope and we eventually arrived at the top. Somehow I was let in without paying the 5 rupee entrance fee; the ticket seller just waved me on by when I said I was alone without a vehicle. *shrug* Can’t complain about it I guess, though that 5 rupee did go immediate to use paying for the privilege of using a bathroom.

Instead of noticing a map of the layout, I followed the sides of the fort, seeing the many arrow slits along the walls. Tipu Sultan also built a summer residence up here that was stark but opened down to a flight of stairs leading to the bottom. I went down about a quarter of the way before turning back. It’s apparently a path of entry for some visitors to this place.

From there, it was a matter of walking through gardens, old cottages (including former residences of Gandhi and Nehru), restaurants, scenic views of the surrounding countryside, a jungle gym where children roamed, and Tipu’s drop, where he executed prisoners. There’s not much specific to say until I have the pictures uploaded; the sites themselves were enjoyable but not strikingly unique. I guess the unique mix of everything offered on the hill makes it an enjoyable destination. With that said, by early afternoon I had seen everything on the hill, so I had ate a quick noodle dish before heading back to the main gate, viewing the gardens, and catching the 2:30 bus back to Bangalore. The half day excursion, make that full day due to transportation, is definitely worth it for the chance to see the impressive views and take in the relaxing vibe of the hill fort.

Each weekend brings along a new trip, right? You bet! I had originally planned to do a sedate trip to the nearby Nandi Hills to get myself oriented and to continue adjusting to India. But I met up with a few Germans (they’re everywhere it seems) on my first week living in the same wing of the hostel (all the elective students are clustered there). They were the same ones I commented upon earlier with whom I went to eat dinner and watch a movie. On the way back, we discussed going on some weekend excursions together. We decided on going to Mysore on the upcoming weekend, and bought train tickets for Hampi 3 weekends away.

Instead of going to Nandi Hills my first week, I worked overtime on Saturday, which was worthwhile as I saw more interesting pathology in dermatology clinic. Early Sunday, we all got up at 5:45, later than I’d have liked, to try to catch the 171 bus going to the train station. We got on the bus at around 6:15 AM and were a bit pressed for time because the bus stopped in Koramangala for quite a while. I tried to reassure the other two that we’d still likely make our 7:00 AM train, but they insisted on getting a rickshaw for about 200 INR the rest of the way to the station. Even then we arrived barely in time, which turned out to not have mattered as the train didn’t head out until 7:30 (you can always count on an Indian train to be delayed).

This was the first time any of us had traveled in sleeper. It was totally appropriate for a short journey, though I wouldn’t recommend it for actually sleeping overnight. Due to RAC tickets, the moment one vacates one’s seat or berth, someone else can come charging in to claim it. I also wouldn’t be surprised if more than a few second class passengers made their way to sleeper for the better seats. There were way too many people and during the ride we didn’t see the conductor come by once to check tickets. The other two girls slept on their upper berths while I sat and tried to get comfortable on my side upper (the best berth in my opinion) seat, which had someone else sitting on the other end. I listened to my audiobook and read Lonely Planet while waiting out the 3 hour train ride.

Mysore is considered the jewel of south India because of its opulent palace. It’s also one of the cleaner cities in all of India. We headed south east from the train station, relying on Lonely Planet maps as my Google maps didn’t have the city saved for offline use, and my 3G sim card which I had just bought wasn’t activated yet. We passed nice hotels, fenced off mansions, before eventually reaching the market district. It was near noon, and we were all a bit hungry, so we hunkered down at the only restaurant we could find. It was too early for anything major to be served, so I had a dosa and the two girls had multiple cups of coffee and juice.

We decided to go to the palace first, and then head up to the Chamundi Hills in the high afternoon, before coming back to see the palace be lighted up at night, then get dinner, and take the bus back home. On the way, we passed quite a number of touts, rickshaws, and vendors eager for a piece of our business. This was quite shocking as I had previously not seen any of that attitude in the Deccan or in Bangalore. Maybe it was because we were an attractive target, three obvious foreigners traveling in a group, or maybe it is because Mysore is a tourist hotspot. We saw so many other visitors, especially Germans, that the two girls took to a game of guessing their nationalities before sneaking up and eavesdropping to confirm by listening to the language used.

The palace itself is indeed impressive from the outside. The whole city and local area somehow remained nominally self-governing throughout the British Raj period, ruled by the beloved Wodeyar family until independence. The palace is testament to the degree of wealth they possessed. We entered for an inflated 200 INR tourist fee, though that does include audioguides. Nearby is a Hindu temple where we could pay to have our shoes kept and again pay to snap pictures within (argh, I detest the commercialization of temples). There were many tourists and surprisingly locals wandering the palace grounds, which was clear of trash and featured carefully manicured gardens and lawns. We entered the main entrance and walked through a carefully cordoned off sequence of rooms, listening to the audioguide on select stops.

The palace contained polished ivory staircases, pillars made of bronze but made to look like wood (to avoid the fate of  the old palace, which burnt down), cavernous ballrooms, and detailed spanning paintings. The Wodeyars sure knew how to keep a palace! Near the end we circled to a hall of mirrors, designed to reflect infinity. All throughout were reminders of the Hindu religion in paintings, wall carvings, and gates, as well as the twin headed bird that is the sigil of the ruling family. Finally we came to the grand entrance, where many candelabras and chandeliers would light up the night whenever the royal family held a ball. It was also the location from where the Maharaja would address his people, who would be massed in the grounds below. Very ceremonial indeed! Unfortunately, cameras were prohibited inside the palace, but the guard asked for a bribe instead of requiring us to go back to the main gate to check them in! Even still, enough guards were watching inside that we didn’t dare try to snap pictures. As I was wandering through the exhibit, I even saw a man who was surreptitiously snapping shots on his cellphone get busted by a guard. You’ll just have to take my word for it on how amazing the palace is and how it’s definitely worth a visit to Mysore just to see this gem (actually, there’s precious little reason otherwise to visit).

With the sightseeing done, we reapplied sunscreen and rounded the palace to get back to the bus stop. From there it was a short hop to the Chamundi Hills, which were not all that impressive. The top was covered by a flea market selling random local goods (not all that impressive) as well as stuff like kids’ clothing (why?). Beyond the market there was a golden temple with a massive throng of humanity queued up to enter, and undoubtedly experience being herded and shuffled through like cattle with nary a moment to snap a photo. Not unexpectedly, we passed on joining them. Instead, we picked up some cold drinks from some brick and mortar shops nearby and wandered the top of the hill, admiring the mudbrick houses of the locals, and looking down on the plains from the top. We spent most of the time telling “black stories” to each other (read up on it). I didn’t get it at first but it did become surprisingly fun, to a point. It must be a German thing.

With not much to do on the hills, we hailed the same bus heading the other way and got back to the palace. We wandered the markets for a while, not finding anything of interest, and then sat around for a while in a plaza waiting for the sun to go down. Miri was desperately trying to find a spot to recharge a Tata SIM, but there was none to be found, surprisingly. About 3 hours before our bus was scheduled to depart, we went to a restaurant that unfortunately only had south Indian snack food (where *are* all the decent restaurants in Mysore?), which was thankfully still tasty and cheap.

From there it was just a matter of going back to the palace to round out our day. The palace at night is drastically different from the day. Yes, there are tourists swarming the grounds, but no one is allowed into the exhibits, and instead the outside of the building and gate are lit up with incandescent lightbulbs (how wasteful!) light starlight in a dark sky. I stood there marveling at the display but also wondering how much nicer it would be if those things moved about or flashed like Christmas lights.

Our ride back was courtesy of a private bus from SRS Travels. It was comfortable enough, with long curtained beds that were more comfy than the train. However, the bus let in all the honks of Indian roads, as well as jiggled with the occasional pothole, so much that despite how tired we all were, we didn’t get a wink of sleep. To add insult to injury, back in Bangalore, we had to take a rickshaw back to our rooms because the bus ceases to run after 10 PM or so. The one who approached us (red flag!) offered to use a meter, and we were all tired enough to agree without searching too hard for another driver. This one was crafty though. Nora figured out quickly that his meter was tampered with, and ran faster than normal. I also had the suspicion that we were going around in a circuitous route to add cost, though I was slow to confirm this via GPS. In the end, it took 24 km for a ride that should have been half of that, according to Google Maps. The end price came out to be 600 INR for all three of us, after doubling due to the night-time fare increase. Nora was quite indignant and only paid 300 before stomping off across the road. Luckily he shouted at us for a bit but didn’t come chasing after.

From there, we sneaked back into our dorm rooms, bypassing the loosely enforced curfew (they are more lenient for foreigners, perhaps?) to a sound sleep despite the ever so stiff mattress.

Blast it! I miscalculated on distances. The train hop between Goa and Mangalore was only about 4 hours, which meant that I could easily have gone on a sleeper class train (which paradoxically is the one you get when you don’t expect to get much sleep) and saved money. This is because I was dropped off at 2:30 AM in Mangalore station. There I decided to wait for a few hours before trying to walk into town. While I sat in the waiting room, trying to sit still and let the fans work over my tired body, a sudden downpour started outside. Now, this was quite unexpected, mind you, given that the monsoon season is not due for a few more months yet.

With the rain more people came inside into the sheltered waiting room. It was hot and stifling, with fans that spun at low enough speeds not to be of much use. Many people lay on the floor on blankets or clothing. In particular, a Muslim family came in with two children and the wife in a burqa. The man was lying on the floor clutching his abdomen, obviously in pain. Every so often, the wife would come over and rub his abdomen for comfort. Eventually, I felt I had to do something, so I talked with the wife, explaining that I would like to examine him. He had a bit of vitiligo and an acute abdomen in the upper quadrants. He didn’t appear to be too dehydrated, wasn’t febrile, but hadn’t eaten for a few days due to pain. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do. The pills I had on me (ibuprofen, tylenol, and cipro) weren’t too appropriate for him without knowing what was specifically was causing his abdominal pain; don’t want to exacerbate acetaminophen toxicity or worsen a peptic ulcer. Fortunately though, he was on his way to the hospital (via train???) and hopefully would be taken care of there.

When the time got to 5:30 AM, I decided to brave the night and try to walk to some hotels I had decided upon earlier. However, to my consternation, the GPS did not show any hotels nearby and I was having trouble getting my bearings. Then I realized something. I was at a different railway station! Yes, it was still Mangalore, but not Mangalore Central, which was close to downtown and was where I expected to end up. No, I was at Mangalore Junction on the far east side of town, which served as a stop for ongoing trains heading south along the Deccan peninsula. After seeing the distance I had to walk and the darkness outside, I decided to give up and take a rickshaw into town. It was 150 rupees (double because of night-time I imagine) and about 15-20 minutes. The driver was at least honest and didn’t try to charge an exorbitant price or lead me to a dark alley to be murdered.

I had him take me to a potential hotel on my list, but after inquiring there found it all full. The hotel next door had an expensive 2000 rupee room available that I equivocated on, preferring to see my options further down the road. While walking along, an annoying rickshaw driver kept trying to take me to hotels around. He was quite persistent and repeatedly ignored my pleas to leave. Instead I had to stand in the middle of a coil of rope warded off from the street by some barriers for him to eventually give up and drive away. 4 hotels later, I turned left into a narrow alley and found a 800 rupee AC room at Hotel Laxmi Mahal. It was also wifi-equipped, allowing me to check email and update contacts stateside through Talkatone and Google chat.

The hotel itself looked just like any other, with a large bed this time but an annoyingly thin mattress just like every budget hotel in India. The AC worked as advertised, and the shower was basic but tolerable. I took a shower, went down for a basic breakfast, and collapsed on the bed for a few hours.

I eventually woke in the mid-afternoon and decided to take a stroll around town. Mangalore is a remarkably diverse city. It is about 10-15% Catholic (Mangalorean Catholics are distant offshoots of Goans who moved down during Portuguese times, and still have similar converted names), 20% Muslim, and the rest Hindu by my guess. The amazing thing is that the city is dotted by majestic churches, hidden temples, and mosques that denied me admission (like everywhere else in the world so far). Religious harmony is evident, and everyone seems to get along without problems.

I had a delicious but expensive fish curry dish before trying to make my way down to the docks. On the way, I passed Rosario College, a Catholic finishing school (combined high school and college) which was incidentally celebrating graduation (called College day locally). A few enthusiastic students invited me inside to sit in on the ceremony, which I did. I left near the end and chatted with the students outside. The young people here, as in most parts of the world, spoke reasonably good English. We discussed graduation, future plans, and life in Mangalore. The one in particular who took most interest in me told me of his dream of getting a business degree.

I continued down the road, kindly turning down their invitation to stay for the end of festivities, relying on my GPS to roughly get me down to the docks. By luck, I found my way to the end of a small jetty where several men were relaxing by fishing. The view of the coastline was superb, the wind relaxing and gentle. The late afternoon setting sun added a finishing relaxing touch to the whole affair. I felt the urge to lie down and let the rhythm of the place take me in. I chatted with the fishermen for a bit, learning that they were friends who worked in the town and came to this jetty nearly every evening to relax and fish. They don’t catch nearly as much as commercial fishing boats and thus can’t make this into a job, but they do get to eat their catch.

The next day I checked out of the hotel early at 5 AM, due to the 24 hour check out policy to avoid being billed for an extra day. I spent the extra time doing some work with the free wifi. I headed out for the day early to catch the 7 AM bus to Ullal beach across the river to the south. It was an hour long drive with some beautiful scenery on the outside as the sun rose. The beach itself was disappointing, however. There was garbage strewn about, the waves were cold, and the mosquitos still hadn’t retreated from the evening. I did lie down and listen to my audiobooks and soaking in as much sunlight as I could manage. Once when I waded into the seashore a particularly strong wave came in and washed one of my sandals out to sea. Curses! I swam out a bit into the water and rescued it before coming back drenched down to my smallclothes. The few others on the beach stared at me, probably because as I would later find out, most Indian people can’t swim.

After a morning at the beach, I hopped on the train back to Mangalore proper, arriving in the early afternoon. Ah, it’s always so refreshing to have the wind blowing through the window on a hot day, even if it does bring along pollution and dust. The afternoon was devoted to going to the Sultan Battery, a local attraction in the northwest of the city. I spent a heck of a time standing outside in the sun trying to find the #16 bus that is said to go there. I think the problem is that the bus came only very intermittently, and stopped in a large street (rather than a proper parking lot or bus stand) with all the other buses making for a very chaotic time trying to see the bus number. I did take the chance to stockpile on bottled mango juice. Man, I’ve become addicted to the “Slice” stuff they package. Imagine 50 US cents for a 600 mL bottle of tasty cold squeezed juice!

With that in my hand, as my rucksack was again heavy after checking out for the day, I arrived at the Sultan Battery. From the outside it wasn’t very impressive. Overlooking the water’s edge, there rose up a small circular tower with musket slits. On top of a flight of gated stairs are benches, likely newly added, for visitors to sit on. It seemed to be a popular place to celebrate birthdays. As I was looking over the ramparts, a group of kids appeared on there and started chatting with me. They seemed enthusiastic and I decided to accompany them in their daily outing. It turned out that these kids were from Canara High School, and had just graduated. They were out today for celebration as a group. Many wore the uniform and colours of their school (shirts for men, saris for women).

We chatted for a while on the battery and then headed down to take a cheap 4 rupee boat ride across the river to a clean and scantly occupied Tannir Bavi beach on the other side. It was remarkable what a gem was so close to the city, so much better when compared to the more famous Ullal beach to the south. We waded into the water for a while before taking some photos and heading back. Again, reflecting the diversity of the group, there were Muslims, Hindus, and Christians as part of the school, and they were all present in the outing. It was a rare look at the daily lives of kids in India, and indeed I got a good look at some western-style dating that has infiltrated their lives. As for technology, all had mobile phones with some degree of data coverage (feature phones from Nokia are most popular, but Android phones mostly from Samsung are making inroads).

We headed back and got some drinks and ice cream before parting. The kids were heading to a mall in the city, and I had a few more hours before my train to Bangalore that I decided to spend watching the sunset from the top of Sultan Battery.

The train rumbled into Madgaon station early in the morning and I confirmed my stop with the cabin boy. It’s surprising that they don’t announce or show the station. That would be very helpful especially at night when station names are not visible. The train ended up delayed by an hour overall, which I later learned is common to this area of India due to single track rails. Double track ones are apparently not possible due to difficult terrain.

In terms of compartment, I don’t have much comparison as I only booked AC3. This for me is the best balance of cost-effectiveness, comfort, and berth availability. The fellow passengers are also more likely to be middle class professionals who speak English. Another nice thing about ac trains is that the berths are covered by curtains allowing actually decent sleep.

Anyway, one look at my GPS app showed that I was at the train station in the far south of Goa. I thus slowly made my way to the city proper along small narrow main roads with no sidewalk. At the main city, I stopped for some food before trying to find hotel Tanish, which came highly recommended by lonely planet. Here’s a word of caution regarding relying on LP absolutely. Most authors only try a few hotels and thus can’t make an informed comparison of all available choices. The cycle then propagates as subsequent travelers stick to the tried and adequate. In my experience, the non LP hotels and restaurants are on average neither better nor worse than listed ones. Actually, wikitravels has a more up to date and comprehensive listing, if it does lack for detail and pizzazz sometimes. Go crowdsourcing!

Hotel Tanish is located at the top of a mini shopping mall and acquits itself well. For about 750 rupees, I got an air conditioned double room.
Actually, the hotels in India come standard with double rooms and two people renting would actually only add an incremental 50-150 rupees to the room cost.

In the hotel, I quickly threw down my luggage, showered (would prove to be a recurring theme to make up for overnight sleeper trains without shower facilities. I actually appreciate the freedom that travel with just one backpack gives. A suitcase would be a nightmare to bring along, necessitating cab rides wherever I go, and making day of departure exploration impossible (though in retrospect dragging around a heavy backpack is not much fun either).

But enough of that distraction. I went out in a t-shirt and shorts under my jeans. I picked up a bag of cashews, a Goan specialty, for 350 rupees. That price is actually the closest I’ve felt to state side prices (using Costco as a reference).

In terms of safety, India is one of the best in my short time so far. There’s a refreshing complete lack of touts that plague Morocco. Also regular people, outside of Mumbai and popular tourist hotspots, are genuinely curious about visitors, and are infinitely patient in their attempts to communicate. Petty theft has not been a concern so far. Although I am on heightened precautions, there are no thugs at night or on deserted streets and no expert pickpockets that plague Latin America. Combine that with the cheapest cost of living I’ve seen so far and you get a great backpacking locale.

Now armed with my cashews and drink, I made my way to the local bus stop across from the municipal gardens. From there I got on the bus to Colva beach for 10 rupees. There were a surprising number of young European vacationers there (as predicted by LP in Goa) probably because of their more worldly mentality and availability of vacation time.

Colva beach turned out to be pretty typical for a beach (once you’ve seen one…). It was reasonably clean, of medium occupancy (meaning not nearly as crowded as American ones). The usual assortment of ice cream sellers dotted the periphery. The sand was crisp golden, water mildly warm, and sun blazing. There were plenty of water activities to engage in, including paragliding. No surfing though.

After I returned from a relaxing time mostly spent soaking in the sun and listening to audiobooks, I decided to turn in early at around 5 PM to slowly readjust my body to the time zone shift.