Bangalore & Hassan

Well, here I am again. I arrived in a thankfully temperate Bangalore at 6am local time after 10 hours of being wedged at the back of a jumbo. Flights to Bangalore won’t be that busy I thought, I might get a double window seat where I can stretch out a bit. What a fool, I should have remembered that any Indian mode of transport will always be packed to the gills! At least it was only one person per seat.

I wouldn’t advise anyone to arrive here half asleep as you need your wits about you immediately. Confusing rituals – scanning your bags AFTER you arrive?! – and hoards of people aren’t the most relaxing welcome. But I was slightly heartened by the fact that so many of the things I had curiously grown accustomed to were back with me immediately. So it’s a big “welcome back” to sweeping lady, a beautiful sari flowing from her nylon cleaning overalls; a “nice to see you” to the 8 year old boy touting for the taxi company, and a “not you again!” to the fervent porter trying to rip my bag from my hand and charge me for taking it 10 yards to the taxi queue, where I fill in the first of many forms on this trip, and am ushered by a very young boy to the predictably unroadworthy vehicle. This one actually had seatbelts though – a rarity – but sadly nothing to plug them into. What they give with one hand…..

It’s 7am by the time we hit the road but of course, everyone’s awake and honking their horn. Bangalore is India’s second most modern city after Bombay, its fast-growing wealth coming from the burgeoning IT and service industries, plus of course, it is home to most of our beloved call centres. If only I could track down the Talktalk ‘customer service’ centre, my trip will be complete already. The money shows -roads are all fully paved and every main route is plastered with billboards, most of them bearing the cheesy grin of Shah Rukh Khan, Bollywood’s premier actor and a face you cannot escape here. More on him later.
My hotel is nice in a sort of 70s sitcom way and I am greeted by a man blowing a whistle for no apparent reason, India is rife with them. All uniformed and ready for battle, all devoutly blowing whistles at no one in particular and pointing a lot. “You! Yes, you! Stop it!” Stop what? I'm not doing anything? “Do not question me!” Trrriiiiiiii!!!!!!!

I manage a couple of hours of very poor quality sleep, made so because my ‘mini-bar’ seems to be powered by an old locomotive engine, which kicks in every 10 minutes or so. Its unhappiness may have something to do with the fact that it is tilted at quite an angle, thanks to its resting on a lurching plastic step which is built to support something a tenth the weight. My bathroom is text-book standard; not quite as nice as the room, a mild stench of mold and a semi open-drain which gurgles after the use of any facility. Unfolding the first of 2 towels reveals it may have spent a previous life as a decorators dust sheet as it is festooned with odd blue stains. The unwritten Indian motto, “if it works, it stays” means there’s absolutely no use in pointing this out, as they’d only look at me as if “silly woman, you can still dry yourself with it can’t you?”. I take the other one which looks cleaner.

Then, of course, there’s my bucket. Every single hotel room in India, whatever your budget will furnish you with a plastic bucket and a little measuring jug hooked over the side. This is just in case the traditional receptacles of sink and bath do not meet your water-holding needs. You can only imagine the furore if your room didn’t have one. “Reception! This is not good enough! My bed is comfortable and the mini-bar adequately stocked but I do not have a bucket! Bring one immediately, I shall not survive otherwise!”

I do not stray far on the first day, taking in the ‘glitzy’ Brigade Road and its very shiny shops. By shiny I mean with actual doors and glass in the windows. I can’t believe it! Weirdly, it seems to be more of a temple to Men’s fashion with macho shops called such manly things as Excalibur and Woodland. There are also a lot of bars, something you really don’t see outside the very big cities. The Bangaloreans are quite the party kids, always looking to spend their hard earned rupees in one of many ‘pubs’ or ‘lounges’. Very un-Indian to me.

The main drag, MG Road is often photographed as India’s answer to Piccadilly Circus thanks to its brightly lit signs. I’m not sure from which vantage point this photo is taken, but they did well to give the impression that the whole road glitters with neon as there are actually several blocks where there seems to be no electricity at all! There you are walking along and suddenly the pavement disappears, it’s pitch black and you feel like you’re in Baghdad. The road is one sided, the opposite side home to a huge Parade Ground. From the looks of it, the last time they had a parade there was when MG was still alive as it’s a total wasteland.

There are so many cars too, most of them very new. You don’t tend to see that many as most traffic is of the 2 wheeled or four-legged variety. 99% are miniscule little hatchbacks – still able to cram in up to 8 passengers - and you can have anything you like so long as it’s a Hyundai Getz, a Suzuki Swift or the local lad, the Tata Indica. Tata are India’s largest Multinational company and it shows, they seem to make everything - cars, steel, electricity, satellite telly, they even own Tetley Tea. Indian! Despite their status symbol, cars are actually quite low down the pecking order on the roads, having neither the imposing size of the buses or lorries nor the ability to undercut anything at great speed as enjoyed (at great length) by the vast quantity of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes. Traffic here is reasonably civilised; there are traffic lights and even an attempt to keep the honking down with signs saying “Do Not Horn Unnecessarily”. The road signs never fail to amuse me, always advising drivers to be cautious, which of course they never are: “Sefty First; Speed Second”. Yeah, right.

To get back into the swing of things, I try to catch up with Indian news via the many TV channels, the majority of which are given over to Bollywood or cricket. At any given time, you can see coverage of at least 3 matches – most of them not even involving India – interviews with players (favourite being Aussie fast bowler ‘Bretley’) and news stories covering any scandals or controversies. The slightest issue is whipped up into a national crisis and given the same kind of airtime as a General Election. The BCCI (Board of Control for Cricket in India) are generally unpopular but apparently are the richest cricket board in the world *taps nose*.
The forthcoming Test Series between old enemies India and Pakistan is causing much pant-wetting. To maximize airtime opportunity, generous coverage on shows such as their equivalent of Soccer AM, ‘Cricket Crazy’ is also given to the opposing side so I tuned in the other day to ‘Meet The Shoaibs’, where Akhtar and Malik sat looking slightly confused at such burning issues as “when are you getting married?”. Anil Kumble’s recent appointment as captain has seen the poor love with a mic shoved in his piehole every other minute.

Sunday, November 18th - Bangalore
When replying to the common courtesy “did you sleep well?”, it’s not often you can say “not really, the fridge kept me awake half the night”. A fridge!! We’re all accustomed to the nice pretty whir of a fridge, it’s really quite soothing. This is like a thundering steam train and coupled with jetlag, I awoke not knowing what day it was. Over a nice Indian breakfast of sugary and spicy things I scanned the local paper for anything interesting. Headline news was ‘Pig Menace still troubles Belgaum’. Apparently out of control swines are causing havoc in nearby Belgaum, where they apparently ‘hang around in packs after dark’ causing ‘nuisance’. No mention of swearing or smoking but the solution had been found in that they were rounded up and shipped off to Goa to be made into local cuisine. You have to love it!!
saw me on my way to Cubbon Park, the ‘Central Park’ of Bangalore. It was really rather nice, welcoming you in with an impressive statue of Queen Victoria. Teeming with people (obviously) but moreso today as there is a Children’s Drawing Competition happening. I enter and follow the smell of what at first seems like a nice Tandoor oven, perhaps cooking up some treats for the little darlings? No, it’s a totally random man, tending a largish fire within spitting distance of Bangalore’s youth. His fuel? Plastic bags. Cough!
The competition is extremely well organised and brimming with very excitable little boys and girls. You can choose from a number of topics for your drawing; Wonders of the World (cue lots of Taj Mahals); My Family, Traditional Indian Dance and er, Freedom Fighters. And the finalists are: Taj Mahal in watercolour, somebody’s Mum in chalk and this lovely scene of the Tamil Tigers kidnapping somebody in Colombo. Inevitably, where there are children, there are little Katie stalkers. They fall into 2 camps: Confident approach with a firm shake of the hand, a ‘hello Mem, how are you?’ and a quick scarper. Or the ‘Creepers’ – usually girls - who can follow you for several yards then shrink away sheepishly when you turn round to look. This can happen over several yards, so eventually, you approach them to say hello. Dying of embarassment, they are speechless for a bit then after the usual icebreaker of ‘which country Mem?’ you can’t get rid of them. Two such girls stalked me round the park until they plucked up enough courage to ask me for what they were after. “Drawing sheet?” They hadn’t brought any paper with them and therefore couldn’t enter the competition. Bless them, but I was clean out of A4 drawing paper that day. I ripped out 2 pages from my small notebook which were greeted with the sort of look that said “I won’t fit the Taj on that love” and we parted company.
Across the road was the genuinely stunning Parliament building, grandiose and pristine, bearing the inscription, ‘Government Work is God’s Work’ above the door. It didn’t say which God though so the fact that there are over 3,000 Hindu deities might go some way to explaining why there is SO much bureaucracy here…..

I thought I was being good by heading off to the bus station to buy tomorrow’s ticket to Hassan in advance. On the other side of town, I soon realised that modern Bangalore only stretched a little way beyond the main centre and I was back in proper India again. It was hell on earth, the full-on India I wasn’t ready for just yet. It was vast, easily 200 buses parked and thousands of people. Thousands. Every overhead walkway was crammed with people going somewhere, a bit like a stadium just after a match. I had no idea where to start. This is when you feel like a total foreigner as everybody seems to know where they are going except you. After finally finding the right queue, I am pushed out of the way by lots of anxious men who I’m really hoping won’t be on my bus tomorrow…

Markets here are always worth a visit; so colourful, so energetic and generally brilliant photo ops. The produce usually first class and beautifully presented in decorative arrangements. I was therefore excited at the prospect of visiting the ‘bustling’ City Market, just outside the centre. It was like Medieval England; wading through the rocks and compost I headed towards the only covered area, a funny brick building with half its windows missing. Pitch dark inside, it was the usually death trap of potholes and other things to trip over; jutting pieces of rusting metal and toothless old men selling random bits of veg. You could see right through to the basement, which was thronging with people sifting through the day’s refuse. I try to get out but most paths are blocked with people carrying large bags of onions on their heads. Time to go!! The place I want to get to next looks like it should be a walkable distance, but sadly isn’t a walkable path as involves going round a large flyover which has a mini shanty town nestled below. Time for a sharp exit; thank God for the auto-rickshaws which I seem to spend most of my day in. I love them.

Most places you visit will have a temple of interest but Jeez, some of them don’t half look the same. I make an extremely long – and ultimately pointless – trip to Bangalore’s Bull Temple containing an admittedly impressive granite bull, but what it doesn’t tell you is that the state is overrun but granite bulls, so seen one….On the way back I stop at some apparently famous Tiffin Rooms; there’s a huge queue which becomes restless so people just start to let themselves in through the back door, leading you in via the kitchen. This is never a good idea, especially not in India. Seeing all the crockery and cutlery washed in murky water next to a very unsavoury looking chef chopping up onions doesn’t really whip up your appetite, but you’ve got to ignore it. I put my name down for a seat and am ushered a waiting room (!), full of very patient people staring into an empty restaurant! The tables are all deserted, but still we have to wait. Bloody India, no logic whatsoever and absolutely no point in trying to question it.

Strangely, I have seen more churches than temples so far, the nearest being St Patricks where I stopped for a wander. There was the obligatory guard to navigate first, but like most of them, he had no idea why he was there, as peole were totally free to come and go. The church looked like any European one, its only token to India being a statue of the Virgin Mary atop a map of the country, painted in the colours of the flag – green, white and orange. In large letter below, simply the signage ‘Behold Your Mother’. Victim to usual standard of Indian upkeep, the H had slipped down, to reveal the new instruction ‘Be Old Your Mother’. My mother turns 60 in a couple of months, will that do?

Monday 19th November – Bangalore to Hassan
My first long bus journey of the trip, but it’s an ‘executive’ coach, which means one person per seat but sadly doesn’t omit the random stops – you can literally hop on or hop off any bus at any time providing you can squeeze on. The posh buses also give you a loo stop, these vary in length according to the driver’s mood – this one was short enough for them to just leave without me, I only just made it back on…..The journey is seamless, bar one roadblock. A lorry is being winched out of a ditch, not as the result of any accident, but because its front wheel base has folded in half, thanks to its cargo of bricks, most of which are now in the ditch as well. As there is no sign of anybody dead or injured, so nobody seems even remotely bothered. The lorry and bricks will no doubt stay there until somebody comes to nick bits of it for spares.
I’m off to Hassan as it’s nearish and recommended for some temples nearby. They’d better be bloody good as the town is a total hole. No tarmac-ed road so you are covered in soot and dust the minute you step out. My hotel room is huge and spotless but so noisy from the traffic horns I just know it’s going to be my third night in a row of bad sleep. I gingerly wander about; it seems the town’s only focal point is the local Picture House, which is so decrepit it’s hard to tell whether it’s being renovated or pulled down. There is also a confusingly high count of Bakeries, all selling nice-looking sweets and nasty plastic white loaves. Sliced bread has come to India, their slicing machine in the form of a 12-year-old with a rusty bread knife. He’s pretty quick though; I’m impressed. I am so grubby by the time I get back that I need a shower immediately. It is only when in a smaller town with limited water-heating skills that you realise the true worth or your bathroom bucket – it’s the easiest way to wash in cold water without freezing your arse off.

Tuesday November 20th: Hassan & Belur / Halebid temples
Christ Almighty, this country is so bleedin’ noisy. As if the traffic outside weren’t enough, the lift outside my room – the old kind where you have to manually pull 2 doors to get in and out – started up a half past sodding five and didn’t stop. The temples I need are a 1-hour bus ride away and the Bus Stand is thankfully close. Sadly, despite about 40 buses coming and going, none are for where I want and all he signs above each platform are in the local dialect, Kannad. No English at all. On top of which, every person I ask points me in a different direction. Another bus shows up, creating a stampede. I bet that’s mine. It is. I run towards it along with several others. The front door is wedged shut so everybody is getting on at the side. I am stuck in the crush, made harder by the fact that the lady in front of me has several rolls of glass bangles slung over her shoulder which are weighing her down. I lose a shoe in the process which I only just manage to get back. It’s standing room only so I hang on at the front whilst the hateful guard digs me in the back every time he wants to get past.

I’ve figured that buses here are always full because they’re often the only mode of transport for casual farm labourers, hence the random piling on & off in seemingly the middle of nowhere. I eventually get a seat half way and enjoy the miles of cornfields, dotted with little shacks housing workers to shell the husks…….and leave all the debris by the side of the road.

The huge, square temple at Halebid is impressive and thankfully charge free. There is the odd guide ‘tout’ which is common – a man with a dubious ‘official’ badge to show you round for a fee. I walk round the temple which has a crowd gathered at one side. Nothing new here, I’ve given up trying to fathom why the Indians love crowding places so much. On this occasion however, it’s proper exciting: they’re making a film!! Proper Bollywood action right in front of me. And NO security whatsoever. The rig is all set up and surrrounded by guards, but none of them are keen to keep away the large crowd of mostly schoolkids. The ‘star’ is wearing combats and a very inadvisable plunging orange V-neck. His shoulder-length hair is being tended to carefully, whilst his stunning co-star stands around in her more traditional sari, I certainly don’t see any trailers for them to lord about in. They are shooting one tiny shot, involving him standing in a manly legs-apart pose, while she runs behind him in a diagonal line, waving her hands about. No more than 10 seconds max, yet it takes several goes – and a appointment with the hair & make-up team in between each one – for HIM!! Whilst he is being coiffed, a flunky hands the woman her mobile, and then another. She checks both whilst macho man is checking his parting and they do the scene again. And again. Etc. All the while the crowd is totally silent, just happy to watch.

A quick bus hop to the next temple attracts a similar sized crowd – for me. It’s not unusual to be asked to have your picture taken with other tourists but this was ridiculous. As I agreed to have a photo with one lot, a guy gestures over to other, and soon there are young boys literally running to be in the picture. Then each one produces a camera so they can record it on their own film. So annoying. I literally have to walk off shouting “NO!!” lest I am there all day. I can’t wait to get out, so walk back to the bus station via a very manky looking building with a cattle grid outside. It’s the local hospital. An effortless journey back is marred only by the sneaking conductor charging me for an extra fare for a child. That’s 9p I’ll never get back….

I am actually dreading another night here but as ever, am cheered by the news programmes. They've hit gold tonight, the 2 most popoular topics combined into ONE STORY!! Tonight's scandalous headline is on constant loop: Shah Rukh Khan has been accused of attending cricket matches to get publicity for his new film! Just imagine: famous person attends public event to promote latest venture, you couldn't make it up! The BCCI have suggested that perhaps he is not there to enjoy the fine pacework of the Indian team. SRK is said to be 'hurt', and is vowing never to attend another match again.