Hampi is a World Heritage site, eight or nine grueling hours by train [2nd class non-AC sleeper] or by "luxury coach: super-deluxe executive class" bus [so many adjectives, so little in them], but after a night's recovery-sleep it is completely worth it. For over 200 years the site of a thriving Hindu empire, it was razed by a league of sultans in 1565. Pillage and time have much reduced its splendor, but it's still an awe-inspiring ruin--perhaps the topic for another post.
This afternoon, though, I set out through the village at the very southern fringe of the vast historic site, where one paved temple-complex spreads out over the area of four football fields or more. It's on a side-road of the village of Kamalapuram, which seems a relatively prosperous place, with a couple of public water-pumps, and electricity laid on. [Of course the sight of overhead wires isn't exactly congruent with the majestic temple ruins, but a country where people still starve can't really bury its wires.] Some of the concrete-block houses are large, even multi-story, and the thatch-covered mud buildings are freshly whitewashed. A lovely sky blue is the favored color for doors and trim (and bullock-carts), while on the bare swept earth before some doorways intricate geometric patterns have been chalked. The village shops--one-room stalls open onto the street--are heaped with coconuts, papayas, bananas, water in plastic bottles, and jars of Indian fried sweets.
The usual animals are much in evidence: dogs (either tan or black, all with their tails curling forward over their backs) and puppies, roosters (one perched on a parked motorbike seat) and young chickens, black pigs and piglets. Cats, presumably, after dark (there are a couple of tame ones at the government hotel where I'm staying). A big herd of home-going goats occupied the street for a bit; other goats curl up in their yards like family pets. Of course there's cattle everywhere. Horns come in varied shapes: spread flat like water-buffalo, upright and lyre-like, forward-pointing, Ferdinand-style, etc. Some are painted red or blue, others are tipped with brass caps hung with tiny tinkling bells. There are necklaces of bells, and bright yarn bobbles on foreheads. No sheep---and certainly no elephants.
The usual human inhabitants, too: naked babies, old men and women sitting on doorsteps or the ground (but just resting after a full day's work: no retirement here), a man bathing in the wide, fast-running canal. But above all, children---hordes of them (school is over for the day), who all (above the age of three or so) call out, "Hi, English," and run up smiling. They ask for "school pen?" (next time I'll bring a bag of pens) then "two rupees?" (four cents), but in a ritual sort of way, not expecting any pens or rupees to appear. Then conversational gambits: "Where from?" and "Your name?" They're happy to give their names in return, and laugh as I try to repeat them properly. The expert speakers venture further: "How old are you?" and "Your husband name?" When I reply that he died, their expressions become sad and they take my hand and say, "Sorry, sorry."
Given all the pigs, and the sacred nature of Hampi, I'm surprised to see many Muslim girls (identifiable because their uniform includes a head-covering, even at age eight or so); other girls seem, from their bodice-and-flounced-skirt costume, to be adivasi [tribals]. The boys, of course, are unclassifiably dressed in shirts and shorts, and also like small boys everywhere, are more forward, and rowdy, and try to show me how they can "box." It seems that most of this village's children are in schools, which would make it quite unusual, I believe.
People commonly walk with their backs to the traffic (even at night, on unlighted streets), giving drivers additional incentive to use their horns. Trucks (some brightly painted with floral designs) all have "Sound Horn" encouragingly printed on their rear bumpers. The horns seem especially shrill and loud--unless my hearing has grown more sensitive, as my sense of smell has diminished. For I don't find the streets odorous--even though there are plenty of cowpats (and the fields around are the public toilet). Despite all the loose dogs there are no dog piles, and I don't really want to connect that fact with the roaming pigs.
Compared to the city walk, there's less noise, less litter, more dust (though the street is paved) and more charm. And there's a LOT more interaction. By the time I walk to the end of the street, both to the temple, and returning, I've acquired a tail of kids, some on bikes, all wanting to chat. I came here to see the sights, and have unwittingly become one myself.
This afternoon, though, I set out through the village at the very southern fringe of the vast historic site, where one paved temple-complex spreads out over the area of four football fields or more. It's on a side-road of the village of Kamalapuram, which seems a relatively prosperous place, with a couple of public water-pumps, and electricity laid on. [Of course the sight of overhead wires isn't exactly congruent with the majestic temple ruins, but a country where people still starve can't really bury its wires.] Some of the concrete-block houses are large, even multi-story, and the thatch-covered mud buildings are freshly whitewashed. A lovely sky blue is the favored color for doors and trim (and bullock-carts), while on the bare swept earth before some doorways intricate geometric patterns have been chalked. The village shops--one-room stalls open onto the street--are heaped with coconuts, papayas, bananas, water in plastic bottles, and jars of Indian fried sweets.
The usual animals are much in evidence: dogs (either tan or black, all with their tails curling forward over their backs) and puppies, roosters (one perched on a parked motorbike seat) and young chickens, black pigs and piglets. Cats, presumably, after dark (there are a couple of tame ones at the government hotel where I'm staying). A big herd of home-going goats occupied the street for a bit; other goats curl up in their yards like family pets. Of course there's cattle everywhere. Horns come in varied shapes: spread flat like water-buffalo, upright and lyre-like, forward-pointing, Ferdinand-style, etc. Some are painted red or blue, others are tipped with brass caps hung with tiny tinkling bells. There are necklaces of bells, and bright yarn bobbles on foreheads. No sheep---and certainly no elephants.
The usual human inhabitants, too: naked babies, old men and women sitting on doorsteps or the ground (but just resting after a full day's work: no retirement here), a man bathing in the wide, fast-running canal. But above all, children---hordes of them (school is over for the day), who all (above the age of three or so) call out, "Hi, English," and run up smiling. They ask for "school pen?" (next time I'll bring a bag of pens) then "two rupees?" (four cents), but in a ritual sort of way, not expecting any pens or rupees to appear. Then conversational gambits: "Where from?" and "Your name?" They're happy to give their names in return, and laugh as I try to repeat them properly. The expert speakers venture further: "How old are you?" and "Your husband name?" When I reply that he died, their expressions become sad and they take my hand and say, "Sorry, sorry."
Given all the pigs, and the sacred nature of Hampi, I'm surprised to see many Muslim girls (identifiable because their uniform includes a head-covering, even at age eight or so); other girls seem, from their bodice-and-flounced-skirt costume, to be adivasi [tribals]. The boys, of course, are unclassifiably dressed in shirts and shorts, and also like small boys everywhere, are more forward, and rowdy, and try to show me how they can "box." It seems that most of this village's children are in schools, which would make it quite unusual, I believe.
People commonly walk with their backs to the traffic (even at night, on unlighted streets), giving drivers additional incentive to use their horns. Trucks (some brightly painted with floral designs) all have "Sound Horn" encouragingly printed on their rear bumpers. The horns seem especially shrill and loud--unless my hearing has grown more sensitive, as my sense of smell has diminished. For I don't find the streets odorous--even though there are plenty of cowpats (and the fields around are the public toilet). Despite all the loose dogs there are no dog piles, and I don't really want to connect that fact with the roaming pigs.
Compared to the city walk, there's less noise, less litter, more dust (though the street is paved) and more charm. And there's a LOT more interaction. By the time I walk to the end of the street, both to the temple, and returning, I've acquired a tail of kids, some on bikes, all wanting to chat. I came here to see the sights, and have unwittingly become one myself.
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