Vicarious Nomads: Cows, Elephants and Boulders

I didn't notice it the first day. The guard let us in the gate and I was focused on seeing the room where we would stay for the next three nights. It looked fine. Had a private bathroom and a shower. I didn't think about the fact that the bamboo walls wouldn't be much of a sound barrier from the family staying next door whose small children wake up early and cry. And I am still learning to check the mattresses. Not so much for bed bugs. More for softness. The one at Namaste Guest House at Om Beach would be one of those paper-thin mattresses that makes it difficult to sleep on one's side.

We dropped our bags and headed down the hill for the beach. That's when I noticed it. The guard stayed in a hut next to the gate, with a table and chair inside. Across the path I discovered his friend. The hut is larger, but the walls don't reach the roof. There is a gap of maybe two feet between the top of the wall and the bottom of the roof. And inside sits a cow. This cow never seems to leave this hut. But a steady stream of food is brought from the kitchen. Cabbage, potato skins, cauliflower leaves. The cow eats well. And the mountains of raw food waste from the kitchen disappear daily. This is the camouflaged composting cow of Om Beach.

We left the camouflaged composting cow of Gokarna for Lakshmi the elephant of Hampi. With the help of an Om Beach Travel Agent/Guest House/Internet Cafe, we discovered something revolutionary—a sleeper bus. This bus has no seats, only beds. Bunk beds, stacked on either side of the aisle. It must sleep close to forty. Granted, sleep is probably not the appropriate word given the bumps, twists and turns of Indian roads. But, this is a dramatic improvement from all of the overnight buses I have ever ridden, the reclining seat in front of me digging into my knees as I try to rest my head on a rattly window next to the one overweight local on the continent. So, for seven hours Annette and I stretched out and drifted in and out of sleep occasionally rolling onto each other with a sharp turn.

The bus ride was seven hours but it may have transported us seven thousand years, or perhaps seven planets. We wake to the conductor walking the aisle calling, “Hampi. Last stop. Hampi Bazaar.” We gather our things and groggily wander off the bus. We are in the middle of an ancient market. It is empty. Columned ruins surround us on three sides. An ancient stone temple sits on a hill, bathed in the first light of dawn as she reveals her rosy fingers. Huge boulders are strewn about, some thirty meters high, as if the gods had a raucous party last night and hadn't gotten to clean up yet. As I pee, I look for a hungover Shiva passed out in a ditch with standing water. But all I find is a tower 50 meters high, 500+ years old. Intricate depictions of Shiva, Rama, Krishna and the whole crew decorate the tower's pyramidal shape in successive rows. One goddess has legs spread, hands on either side of her vagina. Perhaps the raucous party isn't over yet.

We look for a guest house and settle in for breakfast while we wait for rooms to be ready. The sun still rises in the east here. Over spinach omelettes, We watch the fiery ball as it emerges over the boulders. After breakfast, we walk to the main temple. Shoes off outside. Some sort of holy water blessing on the head inside. Intricate stone carvings. Monkeys climb around. Holy men dressed in orange, face-painted, bare-chested. And on the way out, we visit Lakshmi. Lakshmi is an elephant. Her trunk and ears are painted in reds, oranges and whites. I think she is holy. She sways from side to side while she stands in the corner of the courtyard, facing out. She has a chain around her leg but it isn't attached to anything. It seems more like the bells people where around their ankles. That way in case the elephant gets lost, one can just listen for the chains. But Lakshmi never gets lost. I watch a man hand the elephant a ten rupee note. She grabs it in the end of her trunk and swings it to her trainer. Then she blesses the man, draping her trunk over the top of his bowed head. I do the same with a torn five rupee note that a vendor refused yesterday. Lakshmi takes it and stretches her trunk over my head. The trunk is soft and she is surprisingly gentle. Then I watch.

Lakshmi is quite the cashier. She takes coins. People just drop them into her nose and she swings them around and drops them into her trainer's hands. She takes bananas. Those go directly into her mouth, peel and all. She takes coconuts. Those go under her right front foot. She crushes them and picks through the white parts with her trunk, raising them to her mouth. Bananas, rupees, coconuts. Whatever order they go into the tip of her trunk, she sorts them all with efficiency, a few smooth swings of her trunk. The trainer mostly doesn't pay attention. He stands on the side and talks to another man until Lakshmi hands him money. Lakshmi runs this show.

We wander this ancient sacred city. We eat chapati, spinach paneer, green pea masala and cashew nut spring rolls for lunch under a mango tree in the shade, a light breeze cooling the amphitheater seating overlooking the river. We wander up the rocks to explore the ruins. As we sit to watch the sun set, a band sets up, harmonium, didgeree-doo, drums. Annette places the vocal rhythms of Prince's “When Doves Cry,” but the words sound more like a sacred chant in Hindi. She sings Prince's lyrics over top. We are a long way from Englewood in May. But it is definitely the same trip.

“If I suddenly disappear,” Annette says, “and leave you and the kids, I will be here. Come find me in Hampi. I love it here.”