Hubli (Karnataka), December 30
finally gone!
I had my dose, it is time to set sail. Between Karnataka and Goa, it's been a month since I link the resorts. I want to go to conquer India, the real. For starters, head for the site of Hampi, it seems grandiose, 450 kilometers south-east in the interior.
After an afternoon traffic jams around Margao, the capital of Goa, I step in Palolem, still on the coast. According to Lonely Planet, is the most beautiful beach of the state, completely deserted a few years ago but today topped huts. I much prefer to avoid the tourists, but it is better to sleep on the seafront in the open field. Indeed, the arc of beach lined with coconut trees on the Moon's three or four miles long is idyllic. It even at its end a very pleasant little bar alone facing a small island apparently pristine, accessible on foot.
On some rocks which connect to ground a fisherman competing raptors.
And under the canoe, some dogs enjoy the shade for a nap ...
By cons, it is not just decorating the huts on the beach, but an uninterrupted succession of restaurants, shops, cafes, bars, dancing with televisions - even a law prohibiting happy hard to build within 300 meters of the sea background is provided by the hordes of vendors who try to put their glasses, leather bags and various massages. In the first hour, I hasten to flee. Finally
party! (2)
I could hardly be happier. I'm on a pretty road to the sea, the weather is beautiful, the bike runs like a mill and an excellent listen live techno (Wighnomy Brothers to the Queen for those interested, it is available on the Net ). Easy Rider to the Indian fashion ... The bribe of 500 rupees that I pay for failure to submit the license, the cops waiting for me in Goa out of their state, do not institute not a hair of my good intentions. Nor for that one to me also claims the police in Karnataka, three hundred yards away. I drive very carefully, because Indians do anything: they doubled in the turns, start three abreast on the road and never look in their mirrors, often set to be their mirror ... But as they never exceed 50 km / h, as long as you anticipate they are not too dangerous. Regularly, I am alone on long straights and I push a little machine to see what she has in her stomach. Basically, I spend my usual speed, about 50 km / h So, 80 or 90. Despite my best efforts, the 100 seems unattainable, the guy who put 160 on the counter was joking. While I wonder if my pace would be sufficient to be admitted on a French highway, my bike starts making a noise a bit too bright. I drop my speed a bit, it seems to get better. But after four or five miles, bed, and suddenly the engine stops with me. Long live the adventure
I was warned that Enfield was totally unreliable. But as the country is full of garages, where the parts and labor are at ridiculous prices, it is not supposed to be a problem. I'm going to test. Already, it is necessary that I get to the next big city, Hubli, which is about sixty miles. I raise my arm, it does not happen more than three minutes before a truck stopped. Four boys twenty years down. They boarded my bike and after I've paid them a drink in a dingy back room pub, gently put me down in front of a vacant housing a garage.
The next day, I learn that it is the piston that farted. I have two or three days of waiting, the time that the piece arrives and the engine is reassembled. I can be in Hampi for Christmas Eve.
Hubli, as its name suggests
Bad luck, I'm stuck in the prototype development of the anarchic city, built without any aesthetic concern. The buildings look like nothing, sidewalks are rutted, it's ugly, noisy, polluted. I wanted to see India's deep, I am. I take this opportunity for me to walk a little, take a look at the lake littered with debris that welcomes families on Sunday, buy a bag and a card for my camera, visit a Hindu temple where a Brahman mannered attempts to flog me his introductory manual to Krishna. I try a few restaurants where I realize how little the Indians are their waiters. The brushes have a handle so small they must be broken in half to use them. As for mops, they do not stick at all, then they are definitely forced to crawl. When I do not eat or go for a walk, I write. And wait.
Hampi, January 1, 2008
Happy New Year!
I know it's silly, but I can not get used to the idea of spending Eve without scoring once. After breaking my nose on several private clubs to Hubli, I end up failing in a party held in a large courtyard. Equipped with a coke and a plate of tandoori chicken charred, I find myself surrounded by two hundred types completely drunk, who stomp, scream and jostle for the number of a pathetic dancer in red dress ruffle on a tube of Britney Spears ... I had better wake up, but it is also interesting to see the Indians give up. While a drunkard is to expel large Loved Tatana, a father while what is correct, but barely holding on his legs, I began to make conversation. He is an engineer, explained that Sanskrit will become more or less long-term programming language of computers and, anyway, the future is nuclear. I totally agree with him and goes to bed before he m'entreprenne on the superiority of ground-ground missiles to the Indian Army.
Hampi, January 3
finally gone! (3) It is
16h, my bike is finally ready. I know it would be better to wait until tomorrow morning to leave, but I do more than hang out in this hole lost and I'm still the road. It will be dark in two hours and Hampi is 200 miles, I can count on two hours of night driving. My Enfield is just waiting for the sun sets to fall down again ... I push the 180 pounds for two miles, time to get to a garage, or rather a hut where a young grisouille with two wrenches and transformer reinflates me the battery between a goat and her young, soon joined by a dozen kids who urge me on all sides. After one hour, the engine restarts and the young engineer proposes to take a turn for the test. I leaves do, but forbid her friend ride behind him. My bike is not a toy and my two bags with passports, computer and all the fuss is strapped to the rack. The two depart each in an opposite direction ... before joining and disappearing behind the hill! Rage and anxiety, waiting, surrounded by the collapsed group of kids laughing at this joke. When the bike finally reappears, I pick up a passenger who looks at me funny is, the yells and pushes him brutally. He falls back, got up, grabbed my neck, we're next door to us slug it out in the middle of a scrum excited by a head that passes over my shoulder, slipped a hand into my fanny and fiddles with my bags. In the crush, the key disappears. While the mood this time I became openly hostile, a new half-hour is necessary to the mechanic to restart my machine by shorting its electrical system. Immediately I actually expelled from the village with no other way.
Never drive at night
But the best is yet to come. Gradually, as the night progresses, the trucks are increasing up to follow single file for miles. As I had to remove my glasses to conduct smoke because of darkness, I am continually blinded by the lights emerging from a thick cloud of dust and exhaust fumes, making me unable to see the holes that are multiplying on the road, often closer to a runway earth. Story to spice things a bit more, those pesky trucks are continuing to fall back without doubling, send me systematically on the side. In fact, the Indians behave like they behave in the queue, where they jostle to reach the coveted position. Priorities have little to do with those we know in the West, here it is much more simple: the bigger is always right. I have the unpleasant impression of participating in a race where all shots are allowed, thankfully without the participants never exceed 50 km / h.
Occurs a lull in traffic and I relax a few seconds. But then came the center of the floor panel that I ducked at the last moment, followed by a pile of gravel on the left, then another on the right. I get my narrowly trajectory, the time to realize that the road ends on a high hole! I brake desperately shines, falls and slips on the tarmac. When I finally stopped me, scratched legs, twisted and firewall engine throttle unhooked, I understand that I am committed on a road under construction. If the road had become calmer, because the trucks had stayed a few yards away, on a parallel track. When finally I manage to Hampi, it's three o'clock in the morning. Eleven hours to two hundred kilometers away. Here is the photo of the winner.
The beauty of Hampi
Upon waking, I discovered a small sleepy village surrounded by majestic ruins, a mixture of royal temples and monuments.
The remains of Vijayanagar, the capital of a kingdom suddenly deserted by its 500 000 inhabitants in the sixteenth century as a result of an invasion, hence the exceptional state of preservation. The main temple, located in the heart of the village, is surmounted by a tower fifty feet high. It hosts an elephant disguised as a Brahmin, who makes Rs gives them to his mahout and puts his head on the wrong people to bless them. I start by walking through the ruins up, fill me with their majesty, before pushing further with the motorcycle to more remote temples, where the Indians conversing quietly. The whole is bathed in a lunar landscape with huge rocks miraculously based on each other, like falling from the sky. It also found the explanation by the Indians, who represent their monkey god Hanuman in the process to bring a piece of the Himalayas in his hand, some pieces have fallen here.
Hampi, January 4
I'm an idiot.
The morning started on a bad two Russians had spent a CD by Carla Bruni at breakfast, I had to go back to bed. A few days after losing my keys motorcycle, I managed to forget my credit card number, I am flying my mp3 player and, worst of all, I dropped my camera into the water. I will have to go to Madras for repair and, in the meantime I'll have to borrow equipment from the people I meet. Bravo, Anthony.
Hampi, January 8
The other side of the river I'm
there for four days, it's time to leave. But before leaving, I do a little tour across the river, which they said the greater good. Before the show I discovered that I still have six more days. These are the ruins that are less charmed by this bank as rice paddies and fields of boulders out of sight. It's paradise for climbers, I see from early morning with their mattresses in the back to counter falling. All around us, men spend with their oxen and plow women transplanting rice in squares of water surrounded by palm trees, forming beautiful spots of color on a green background almost fluorescent. A little more far, there is a lake where I'm going to swim, a Hanuman temple inhabited by monkeys stealing bananas, new ruins to explore ... Every day, I think I went around and I discover new things.
Dating And then there are people. On the sidelines of guesthouses filled bars pleasant music but almost exclusively attended by students from twenty years in uniform hippie, I discovered the pension Manju, where I am taking the place that remains is to say on the roof. I've met fascinating people of all ages and all backgrounds, with whom I have long discussions. There is a saxophonist playing in the rocks alone, a yogi makes his fifties who exercises in the morning next to me while I wake, a carpenter who initiates me to rock climbing and a climbing instructor while Sweet and his girlfriend in disarmingly natural that give me these photos ...
As I walk I meet on a large rock, staring into the sunset, two crazy Austrians Climbing a kindness and extraordinary tact. They travel for a few days with an Indian girl the region and its child, the husband of the latter with the gallantry of care of the rest of the family awaiting his return. We spend an extraordinary evening to talk about anything and everything, and find that after dinner a DJ and we share similar tastes, which takes us even more late at night. If you go to Austria in the spring, he organized an annual festival of techno that seems worth it (www.springfestival.at). A few days later I found myself around a campfire talking about God until morning with Christians, a Hindu, a Muslim convert to Buddhism, a Jew and a few agnostics. Foot.
Hampi, January 9
A monkey in my bed
The next evening when I returned well packed and on my roof I install my screen and my mattress in the dark, I hear a growl. It's a big monkey that sat on my bed ... Not reassured at all, I give it four bananas lying around in my bag, hoping he leaves me in peace. They eat them, showing me the way his huge dog, but do not move from my bed. I finally abandoned him with all my things and go down to sleep on the cushions of the restaurant. The next day, I learn an old dog that's very sweet. I was tells of a boy from a nearby guesthouse has made contact with him, took him in her arms, they have made and tickling the monkey has fallen asleep on her lap. Hampi is magical.
Hampi, January 10
The butoh dancer
One night I was awakened by a noise next to my bed. I open eyes and discern in the darkness, seven people dressed in white who enjoy their breakfast in silence around a candle. I fall asleep again, not completely sure you do not have dreamed of. I know them a little later. It is a group of performers who came to work for six weeks at Hampi. Professional jugglers for four of them, they are experimenting with integrating their technical butoh, a Japanese dance they describe me as "a dance of liberation from the body." A few years ago, I had seen a performance by the troupe Sankai Juku at the Theatre du Chatelet in Paris. Butoh was presented at the time as a dance dedicated to exorcise the memory of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The dancers of Hampi add that its very obscure traditional references were fixed in response to the occupation U.S. and acculturation that followed, but they also ensure that it is a dance that can express all the emotions, including joy. Its shape, very free, goes against the strict codification of Japanese dances, which attracted the emergence of a multitude of different schools. As I explained, smiling one of the dancers, "a butoh dancer, it's like a punk if you recognize is that this is not one ..." The integration of juggling this dance is a long process. They tell me about " out of the juggler's autism, "" use the balls and clubs as extensions of their bodies "and" extended dance up there, several feet high. " Their project is progressing, but it did not seem obvious (and www.jonglorsion.com www.martinealaplage.info).
Each day, the troops from before dawn to dance and juggle in the rocks, surrounded by rice fields, or at the entrance of a village that awakens. Disoriented residents, the practice is presented as the "utcha yoga", the "yoga crazy." One morning I woke up with them. Silently Also, we breakfast lunch, walk among the rocks, cross the river on a small boat and manage the center of seven hills spaced four or five hundred yards of each other. Everybody goes dancing on one of them, clambering over the temple which overcomes most of the summits. I'm with a girl who improvise for two hours with many thanks to the sound of nature, intermittent juggling with the feet against the six silhouettes that stand out on mountains in distance, in fog illuminated by the sun rising.
Accident
When we find the other, the leader of the troupe is now writhing in a cave. He grabbed the sides, face, freezes, throws her arms, rolling in the dust ... We travel to the ruins and then they suddenly call to dance together on a huge wide staircase. This time, they explode in every direction, clinging to the steps, jumping on the spot, improvising without apparent logic in front of stunned tourists and Indians. But things suddenly go wrong when one of the dancers are suspended in a block of granite falls on him, pushing him a rib. It remains stretched long minutes, choking in the middle of the party upset, waiting for an ambulance that does not happen. Finally, we will find a taxi and he went to hospital and diagnosed internal bleeding is not serious, requiring all the same to keep the room for a week. A little Indian
the afternoon, I'm back from my friend's feelings with the monkey makes a sculptor, a musician and Reunion, which accompany the dancers for their project. We go to a portion of the river crowded blocks dramatically widened, rounded, polished by erosion, forming a succession of whirlpools where we spend the afternoon playing with a little Indian naked as a worm, that we jump over the rocks before soaking in water. He never stops laughing, to throw our necks to embrace us. After the excitement of the morning, I felt like I was back in paradise. Strange day.
Guntakal, January 12
Night at Temple
After ten days, I must be from Hampi. As always, and even more than usual, it's hard to tear myself away. Suddenly, the night surprised me in the countryside and I stopped sleeping in a temple, where they invited me to attend the puja, prayer. In the presence of half the village, the Brahmins shirtless and daubed honor the guru behind the temple, a yogi who had himself buried alive for a hundred and fifty years.
When they finished singing his praises and to cover the statue of heavy necklaces of flowers, everyone turns the eyes on me. I am the first foreigner to sleep in this temple. I am asked to take the drum or sing, but nothing comes to hand this good Christian Fanchon, so I declined the invitation. A girl of fifteen years addressed me from the ranks of women to ask me, on behalf of all, to introduce myself. There followed a surreal conversation over the faithful, where I talk about my country, there is cold right now, what I like in India. I mention the colors, life in the streets, welcoming people, all accompanied by the discreet murmur of translations. Then it's time to sing. Everyone gets started, accompanied by tabla and cymbals, I am strongly encouraged to participate by clapping their hands. It lasts an hour. At times, I have small flashes of happiness. I'm where I wanted to be, to live exactly what I hoped, in the midst of those people who accept me so nicely and naturally. Finally, I am invited to grab a rope with the faithful to swing in unison a kind of palanquin on which sits a portrait of the guru. I am a little skeptical, but after all why not. Anyway, this is not the time to laugh. The Brahmin distributes to all the holy water, I drink very much hoping that my stomach can take it, then he handed me a container of white powder that I make a point between the eyes. Finally, we turn to the dining hall for meals offered by the temple. Two large rows of fifty people face, men on one side, women on the other. I go to bed, delighted, without suspecting that another equally strong religious experience awaits me tomorrow.
Puthaparti (Andhra Pradesh), January 15
24hrs a cult
Hardly did I hit the road a serious problem of oil pump broke out on my bike . In the town of Anantapur, I learn that two days of repair will be needed. I decided to take the opportunity to visit the ashram of Sai Baba Puthaparti, three hours by bus. On my arrival, I am taken over by an impressive reception service in costume white and blue scarf. These young sailors bronzed and mustachioed inform, direct and discipline a crowd of several thousands of faithful in white pajamas who throng this small town. Two-thirds are Indian and the other third comes from South America to Eastern Europe and Far East. I arrive at the "darshan," a kind of mass called twice a day and broadcast throughout the ashram through loudspeakers. The guru of 82 years, with its unmistakable afro and his great red dress in the middle of the assembly immaculate three or four thousand people, sits on a huge wheelchair. He was not putting a movement opens not his mouth, nor during the songs, nor during the sermons. It whispers to me that he had not spoken for six months, reserving his precious saliva to the most solemn occasions.
God incarnate
In his view, people fall into a swoon, join hands, bow down as if he was God incarnate. Moreover, it is what it is. In the evening, a Dane of fifty years to explain the serious mine yet without the slightest hint of humor that is Sai Baba who sent Jesus to Earth. In a corner of the ashram, there is just a statue surrounded by the Messiah, but also Buddha, Krishna, Zarathustra ... Everything becomes clear, so it was he who was behind all these stories of religions! Completely hallucinating. But the most scary is that apparently I am the only one not to blindly trust Him my salvation, as required signs at all street corners. That may be me who goes mad. Perhaps I too should land in white pajamas in the refectory and recite my prayers to Sai Baba for an inspired, concluding with a triple shanti before swallowing my steak vegetarian and regain absorbed in the dormitory His holy writings, among the faithful bellied Kazakhs and Russians, who are massed with big slaps on the buttocks in an atmosphere of the Red Army barracks. When I arrived, I wanted to go unnoticed and I am registered as a musician rather than as a journalist, but at night I dream I am unmasked and the whole ashram starts to chase me. Upon waking, I do not relax further reading on the Internet that His Holiness gladly fiddles his young male followers. I go into town, dodging shopping gavaged Sai Babaseries and finally found respite in a quiet restaurant with Nepalese Buddhist flags until ... I spotted his picture on the cash register! Again on the nerves, I make the station and climbed into the first bus, where I finally breathe amid the usual crowd of Indians. I resume my spirits, opened the computer and start writing. Behind me, a man sings prayers to Sai Baba, immediately repeated by all passengers. For help.
Madanapalle (Andhra Pradesh), January 16
Apparently, it should not be many tourists to the area I'm going through. More than anywhere else, people I meet on the road call me to point fingers at their neighbors of a blankly, I make large signs, flashing lights, I honk. So much so that I am often asked if there would be no problem on my motorcycle, but they just do not see a Westerner to hallucinate. When I stop to read the map, everyone looks at me from the corner of the eye there is always a small group of onlookers who came to see me, wants to know what country I come from, why I'm here, where I go, how old I am and especially if I'm married, before repeating the info to all the street which will make them laugh.
- Hey, it's a French 34 year old who goes to Pondicherry !
- No, that is not true?
- If so, I assure you. And you will not believe me, it is not yet married!
- But it's crazy!
And so on. If I stay somewhere a few hours, I realized very quickly that the pharmacist knows who I am and what I bought at the grocery before you met me. A Kagal example, people I had never seen came to ask me if I bought the bike from the mayor. At Hampi, the owner of a bar where I had never set foot told me, smiling with an air of mystery he had guessed that I wrote on his village.
Between expressions of interest and supported the Arab phone, I feel like experimenting star status or a very pretty girl is funny and at the same time a little weird.
Mamalapuram (Tamil Nadu), January 21
A village of sculptors
In fact, it is much more complicated to travel by bike in transit. Mine have me everything. After the piston exploded and burned the oil pump, it is again broken down in Madras, where I left my camera repaired. Apparently a history of battery. So, I leave a few days by bus queue Mamalapuram, a pleasant village of sculptors in the sea There are rows of Buddha, Ganesh and Shiva all sizes and all materials to the shops where they work but also some huge boulders carved. It was before one of them, including the magnificent bas-reliefs represent the banks of Benares, which runs the annual dance festival, the most famous of Tamil Nadu. I borrowed the camera from a spectator and take these pictures of a graceful dancer Natiam Barati, which puts a good dose of mime in her choreography.
the evening, I hang on the beach around a fire, where young Tamils are united with the West. This is the first time I really celebrate with local, it's cool.
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