Driving in cars with strange boys, talking to strangers, drinking the local water, riding motorbikes at night in the rain... all things I have been warned about. Women get a lot of advice before travelling. There are lots of rules for us, mostly based on fear and stories of bad things that have actually happened to someone else who we have no inkling of.
Why is it then, that this advice when not followed correctly results in having HEAPS of fun? What advice do I now give to my nieces and god-daughters and all the young women and girls I love and care for when my experience of travelling generally goes off the charts by doing all of the above? Trust yourself. To trust though, it helps to have experience. So it's catch 22. You've got to have experiences to understand fear and develop trust. Trust and fear - two sides of the same coin of both travel and yoga.
Oh and it helps to meet lovely guys, who stop and chat to everyone on the road and teach you how to pray properly. They also wanted to be in my blog, so that was another reason not to kidnap me.
On Saturday - yoga day off - I ride out to Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary 28 kms north of Mysore in the country, a green bit on Google Maps. No white people, no surprise. It seemed to be the place to meet your boyfriend for a snuggle by what I could tell. A lot of loving going down in the dark corners of this Sanctuary.
On a boat tour of the Kaveri River which is the main thing to do here, I meet a couple of guys down from Bengaluru on a road trip, Bharath the quiet one with a big smile and Mohan, a big guy with a love of adventure. Both work in IT, Bharath at HP and Mohan at Microsoft. So we get chatting about places to visit, and Mohan is loosely translating the guy rowing the boat: There’s a bird. Yep. And another one, Yep, got it. There’s a crocodile. Yeah, yeah I see it. I’m pretty sure the guy rowing 20 of us into a head-wind wasn’t saying that going by his expression, but anyway.
They charge tourists Rs 300 and locals Rs 30 to do the same tour- an interesting marketing strategy to attract international birdwatchers. I know I know, it’s only $13 all up, cheap, and you can rationalise the price like some do here. Same way I suppose they rationalise it’s ok to keep 5 rupees of your foreigners change without asking, the assumption is you can afford it. Being treated like an ATM because you are white is not a compelling experience for anyone in any language, anywhere.
After the boat ride, where it starts to pelt down with rain while we are out on the water, Mohan is loving it. "Ah it's... it's just... bewwwwdiful!" It is. He is smiling ear to ear. He likes rain as much as me. Bharat smiles at his friend. Mohan has ants in his pants, the guy can’t sit still. Over chai and thali they invite me to join them on their “just cruising around, man!” tour of the region and we settle on going to Melkote home to a number of significant Hindu temples in southern India. There’s an Academy of Sanskrit there and the same place Sarah, an American Sanskrit scholar I met recently recommended I check out. My rule of thumb is, if you hear about a place from 2 or more separate sources, maybe go check it out. It’s 130 kms north of the Bird Sanctuary so I leave 'scootie' behind and we drive off together.
I know they are legit and don’t plan to kidnap me because they are stopping every every 10kms to shout for directions through the car window to locals. It’s just how Mohan rolls, he’s definitely a people person. So everyone on the back roads to Melkote knows where I am, and who I am with because they all peer into the car and stare as they answer and point and waggle congenially. On the drive the the conversation covers all the big stuff... about girls who work, why women love money so much, how to get a wife, breaking up stories, living with mum, seeing the world, what's for lunch, the crazy mo-fos overtaking trucks in front of us.
At Melkote and make our way into the main temple, and Bharath scolds me off for having too much fun in the temple. He is the quiet, serious one and he who teaches me how to prepare and accept a blessing, rub my hands over fire, drink and sprinkle water – “With the right hand, Sue, the right hand! She’s from Australia,” he explains to the holy man amused at my strange attempt to both drink and shower at the same time. Luckily for me, it’s not a one shot game. There are lots of gods to pay respect to so I’m on my way to being an expert before I leave. Actually it was a moving experience and I'm grateful for Bharath getting serious on me.
Then Mohan starts. “It’s rude to point your toes at the carving, Sue.” “No, no Sue, you don’t turn your back on the holy man after your blessing. You back away facing him and slowly turn away.” Except there are people crammed in and there’s no way I’m able to do that. “You look at the god’s feet, not just the top part with all the flowers…” “But the feet were covered in flowers,” I protest trying to hold some ground. I get a dark look. No excuse. I am the Christian in the room. Christians do good lighting, space and hygiene and keep our candles to the alter. No playing with fire. No drinking the holy water. No rolling around on the floor, not like here. There are babies and old people sitting in the way, lying flat out, tummy sliding on stained 1000 year old concrete shiny with wear, doing god knows what snake impersonations. It’s getting funky below the knees in the temple but Bharath is steering me out towards the sunlight, before I decide that could be fun too.
In my extensive experience in being told off, disapproved of and tutted at, I find there is a point where you either go into paralysis and become like a robot, or you perfect your ‘whatever’ and hope others will get used to you eventually as you do them. As I’ve been (gently and with good humour) corrected so much in 20 minutes, I was in the first stages of paralysis while the boys were disagreeing over something in the background. Childhood neighbours for 25 years, Mohan and Bharath couldn’t be more different, such a great pair of opposites. While they are fighting a woman in a green sari comes up to me as I’m tracing my fingers across ancient Sanskrit carved in stone walls wondering about the age of this place. She shoves some dragon fruit on a banana leaf in my hands and motions for me to eat it and walks off, but I’m doubtful because everything else I’ve done has been wrong. I look around helplessly trying to get the boys’ attention but of course everyone is watching what I do next. Great. Do I make it an offering? I’ve seen fruit offerings go by in here to rival the greatest grey-nomad sun-downer platter. Do I give it to someone? Pay her?
A young girl stands and openly points and laughs at me covering her face, shaking her head at the whitey who doesn’t know what to do with the fruit that I didn’t ask for and can’t stomach right now.
So you can’t take photos, laugh too much, turn your back, use your left hand, or be efficient in queues but you can eat fruit, slide on your belly in sacred temples and push in aggressively. I love this crazy country! I eat the fruit, relieved that eating at least, is universal.
Why is it then, that this advice when not followed correctly results in having HEAPS of fun? What advice do I now give to my nieces and god-daughters and all the young women and girls I love and care for when my experience of travelling generally goes off the charts by doing all of the above? Trust yourself. To trust though, it helps to have experience. So it's catch 22. You've got to have experiences to understand fear and develop trust. Trust and fear - two sides of the same coin of both travel and yoga.
Oh and it helps to meet lovely guys, who stop and chat to everyone on the road and teach you how to pray properly. They also wanted to be in my blog, so that was another reason not to kidnap me.
On Saturday - yoga day off - I ride out to Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary 28 kms north of Mysore in the country, a green bit on Google Maps. No white people, no surprise. It seemed to be the place to meet your boyfriend for a snuggle by what I could tell. A lot of loving going down in the dark corners of this Sanctuary.
On a boat tour of the Kaveri River which is the main thing to do here, I meet a couple of guys down from Bengaluru on a road trip, Bharath the quiet one with a big smile and Mohan, a big guy with a love of adventure. Both work in IT, Bharath at HP and Mohan at Microsoft. So we get chatting about places to visit, and Mohan is loosely translating the guy rowing the boat: There’s a bird. Yep. And another one, Yep, got it. There’s a crocodile. Yeah, yeah I see it. I’m pretty sure the guy rowing 20 of us into a head-wind wasn’t saying that going by his expression, but anyway.
 |
| Rowing man head down |
After the boat ride, where it starts to pelt down with rain while we are out on the water, Mohan is loving it. "Ah it's... it's just... bewwwwdiful!" It is. He is smiling ear to ear. He likes rain as much as me. Bharat smiles at his friend. Mohan has ants in his pants, the guy can’t sit still. Over chai and thali they invite me to join them on their “just cruising around, man!” tour of the region and we settle on going to Melkote home to a number of significant Hindu temples in southern India. There’s an Academy of Sanskrit there and the same place Sarah, an American Sanskrit scholar I met recently recommended I check out. My rule of thumb is, if you hear about a place from 2 or more separate sources, maybe go check it out. It’s 130 kms north of the Bird Sanctuary so I leave 'scootie' behind and we drive off together.
 |
| croc |
 |
| Singin in the rain |
 |
In my extensive experience in being told off, disapproved of and tutted at, I find there is a point where you either go into paralysis and become like a robot, or you perfect your ‘whatever’ and hope others will get used to you eventually as you do them. As I’ve been (gently and with good humour) corrected so much in 20 minutes, I was in the first stages of paralysis while the boys were disagreeing over something in the background. Childhood neighbours for 25 years, Mohan and Bharath couldn’t be more different, such a great pair of opposites. While they are fighting a woman in a green sari comes up to me as I’m tracing my fingers across ancient Sanskrit carved in stone walls wondering about the age of this place. She shoves some dragon fruit on a banana leaf in my hands and motions for me to eat it and walks off, but I’m doubtful because everything else I’ve done has been wrong. I look around helplessly trying to get the boys’ attention but of course everyone is watching what I do next. Great. Do I make it an offering? I’ve seen fruit offerings go by in here to rival the greatest grey-nomad sun-downer platter. Do I give it to someone? Pay her?
A young girl stands and openly points and laughs at me covering her face, shaking her head at the whitey who doesn’t know what to do with the fruit that I didn’t ask for and can’t stomach right now.
So you can’t take photos, laugh too much, turn your back, use your left hand, or be efficient in queues but you can eat fruit, slide on your belly in sacred temples and push in aggressively. I love this crazy country! I eat the fruit, relieved that eating at least, is universal.
