Bangalore and Nandi Hills
We spent a night in Kottayam waiting to catch a train the next afternoon to Bangalore. We traveled 3 tier A/C instead of our usual sleeper class as it was fully booked, and although we always traveled A/C on our previous trip I was surprised at the difference between the two classes. It was clean and cool, the beds wider and much more padded. We were issued sheets and blankets and pillows and it was all very civilized, apart from the fact we arrived at 4:45 am! It was so early that we had to hang out at the station for a while so as to allow the hotels to wake up.
We had problems with the rickshaw driver that assured us that the minimum price in Bangalore was 350 Rs and he only wanted to take us to specific hotels, the ones that he got commission from no doubt. In the end he was showing us places that were way out of our budget and we dumped him and paid half of what he asked, which was a stupidly inflated price, and set off on foot. We found a couple of places in our budget but they were all a bit skanky when a nice rickshaw man handed us a flyer that looked promising. And it was, thank you Mr. rickshaw man, there are decent guys out there after all. We ended up in a nice, neat place not too far from anywhere with hot water all day (yes, most places we stay in only supply hot water in a bucket if any), a big fat cable TV (a novelty), a well presented room in central Bangalore, and the cheapest out of the lot, bar a really shifty place we had looked at. What a find!
Whilst checking out the city with an obligatory wander, a man ran up to us in Cullon Park and was trying to touch my feet. A little disconcerting, I thought. I’m not sure what it was all about but the man didn’t seem quite all there, a few Smarties short of a tube you could say. I think that it’s meant to be a respect thing, ie: when people go to the temples they touch the feet of the deities and then their own heads to signify that they are only worthy of being at the deities’ feet level. After a couple of times I had to be firm with the bloke with some verbalization and gestures to stop him following us around. To be fair I don’t want to be above, below or for that matter on the same level if it means weirdo’s are going to come up and touch various parts of my body! Yes, my body is a temple but it is my temple.
Bangalore is full of parks and green (parched, actually) spaces and a very cosmopolitan town both in people and culture. You have a lot of well-to-do middle and upper class wandering around MG Road which I guess is the Bangalore version of High Street Kensington or Oxford Street in London – flashy shops, cinemas and nice restaurants, not to mention a dozen or so “trendy” bars with costly beer. One in particular advertises to have an English pub area, a Manhattan cocktail bar, a beer keller and a wild west saloon areas as well. There’s even a bar that is meant to resemble a London Underground station, and is inventively named the Underground Bar. We didn’t go to the latter but the former was a noisy music bar and you couldn’t tell the difference between the “areas” apart from the English pub where there was a fake glowing fire and a couple of leather armchairs that looked if they had been nicked out of a seedy gentlemen’s club. Then you get the more Indian areas, places that you expect in India. Poorly maintained side roads with meal ready eateries and pan shops, generally more grubby and poorer people hang out among the hole in the wall businesses.
Most of the Indians on MG Road were speaking English to each other like it was a status thing or something. It was different to be able to understand their conversations with a little eavesdropping at one of the open air caf�s. Indians always seem to have so much to say to each other and I always wondered what they talked about. Now I know. We saw a couple of English language films on MG Road, one Hollywood and one Bollywood. The Indians really interact with the Bollywood films, really laughing out loud at the Indian humor and clapping at remarks and situations. The film was the usual Bollywood fare of melodrama; boy meets girl, misunderstood love shrouded by the restraints of tradition with a sprinkling of extravagantly gestured singing and flamboyant dance routines. It was all good fun and very enjoyable, even all the Hindi was subtitled into English and at the end everybody applauded and cheered at the credits. (During the Hollywood film, everybody was quiet)
Bangalore, like Mysore, has bars and bottle shops in abundance. Drinking establishments away from the MG Road were a little harder to find but persistence will win through for those in dire need of a cold beer with your food. We have become the traveling gourmet specialists of chicken masala, which has become our staple diet in the evenings. Far from being the same-same, it is usually all very different. In England, masala is a particular way to cook a curry and is, in fact, an English invention, just as the vindaloo was Dutch (you learn something new every day, don’t you?). Masala actually means a mix, but is usually spices as in curries but can be interpreted in any spicy curry combination that the cook sees fit. This is great because it means we can order the same food day in and day out and get something different in each establishment, no two chicken masala are the same. So whether you order chicken, fish, mutton or beef, or even aloo (potato), gobi (cauliflower) or paneer (unfermented cheese) masala, it is a different Indian curry every time. Makes ordering dead easy, which is what I like the best!
Sneaky rickshaw drivers drive around with the minimum fare registered so when you pick them up from a rickshaw stand the meter starts clocking soon after you board instead of giving you the first two Km’s within the first 10 Rs. I worked this one out purely by chance when getting a rickshaw from a stand. To make my point of wanting to travel by meter I pointed to the meter and noticed that it was already turned over to “hired” already. The driver looked sheepish when I turned it over again and a trill “Brrrring” sounded as the mechanics reset. I turned it over once again and this time no resetting bell, you can’t reset an already reset meter! A lesson learnt I think. The sneaky little *#$?!!’s think of any way possible to extract a few more rupees out of you, don’t they? He looked away when I pointed to the sign that all rickshaws carry by law, it say’s:
“If driver requests extra money than on the meter please report to the nearest police station”
Followed by the rickshaw’s number plate. I wagged my finger at him and tutted a couple of times. Still, I expect he will carry on trying it on. I would never actually report anyone, partly because he needs the job, and partly because the mass of paperwork and form filling that would be involved. But a gentle threat when they are caught out doesn’t go amiss.
We took an overnight trip up to Nandi Hills about 60 kms north of Bangalore, an apparently little visited place (by foreigners) and little documented in guidebooks. We were drawn there by an article in the Indian Airlines onboard magazine that wrote about the exhilarating outdoor pursuits to be had in Karnataka, including paragliding from Nandi Hills. We didn’t find anybody that knew about it in Bangalore and were advised that it was probably best arranged at Nandi Hills directly. So we took off from the central bus station to check it out ourselves.
Nandi Hills is about 1800 meters above MSL (Mean Sea Level, I am told this means) so not that high but set upon completely flat surroundings. It is apparently a huge monolith of granite which is surrounded at it’s base by well irrigated, vibrant, lush vineyards, hundreds of them, which is quite a striking sight as these incredibly green vines are contrasted against the terracotta red earth from which they sprout. It all makes a very avant-garde, abstract scene. Quite eye jiggling, actually.
It’s about two hours local “express” bus ride to the old fortified hill station and, although we didn’t have high hopes, thinking it may be another Chilka Lake type outing, we were pleasantly surprised. There is not much written about Nandi Hills which is a shame. The whole time we were here we only saw one other westerner, lots of day tripping Indians but only one white face, which is good in some ways but a shame in others. I think it’s very underrated as a destination. It’s a fab place, very picturesque and quiet (in the mornings and evenings when the crowds aren’t there) and great for a stroll among the trees along winding paths, especially at dawn or dusk when it all gets quite romantic.
There is a choice of budgets and places to stay and, after a quick inspection, we spoiled ourselves with a three-room suite larger than our apartment back home with high ceilings and windows that spanned from floor to the ceiling, overlooking a huge terrace and the sunset. Very swank, a three-piece suite in the bedroom alongside our four-poster bed and one in the living room. All this for the equivalent of only $20 US, can you believe it? Unfortunately, despite a large sign advertising paragliding we were assured that it was no longer possible as it had been discontinued for no given reason (safety record?). As this was the main reason for coming it was a bit of a blow, so we retired to a hilltop restaurant and bar which served an excellent version of chicken masala and a fine Indian whiskey!
The highlight of our time there was a gentle stroll around the winding paths one morning when the guy from the vegetarian restaurant joined us. Normally we would like to have been alone but we put up with him this time and were glad we did. He had been the guy that had been on the bus with us and kindly showed us the back way through the trees to the guesthouse the day before. He was asking us the usual questions in his stilted English – you know, what you do? Where you from? etc – when he suddenly held his arm out in front of us to signal us to stop, pointing to the base of a tree up ahead. He repeatedly said, “snack, snack.” Aha, a rarely seen indigenous forest food item, usually eaten between meals. But no, it was in fact a snake.
A bit more than a snake actually, it was a cobra lying around soaking up the sun perhaps, not so far from the swings and see-saws. As we approached it (carefully, veggie restaurant guy firmly in front), it started to lift its head, eying us with dark penetrating slits and forked tongue and assumed the old cobra hood look. Now I’ve been close to snakes without having a thick piece of glass between us, but this was pretty scary. Eddie and I stopped short while veggie took off his tattered baseball cap and waved it in front of him just off to the side to attract the snake’s attention as he continued to close on our scaly find. Now I guess he was being cautious, maybe just brave, more likely completely nuts. I go with the latter personally. As we watched our nutty Indian companion, possibly for the last time in his lifespan, he squatted down close and continued to wave his cap to distract it. This was the extraordinary bit, he was attempting to pick the venomous creature up with his bare hands (yup, 100% completely nuts!).
He was signaling for us to stay back and be still. We obliged without question or hesitation, and watched him try to pick up the cobra from behind it’s head between thumb and index and middle. Each time he got close and had his fingers around the neck but without grip, the snake would lunge forward and away from his grasp. Each time it lunged, veggie boy jumped back and then repositioned himself, calmly still waving his cap. We told him not to worry, it was all very impressive and all that, but he kept at it and after the fourth or fifth attempt he managed to get a grip and picked the hooded hunter up. It was amazing to watch, he got the snake to bare it’s two creamy white fangs with the aid of a stick. Wow, to be bitten by a thing like that would sure be a moment to remember! Apparently they call it a “V” cobra because of a prominent “V” shape on the back of its hood, it also had kind of dark false eye spots on the front too. It was, it has to be said, quite an impressive show… from a safe distance, of course.
He let it go by safely swinging it away from himself onto the leaky ground where it stayed for a moment then it slid off in snake-like undulations. We found out later that this snake is quite common in India (good to know, considering the fangs) but rarely seen (good to know, considering the fangs). That experience almost made up for the lack of paragliding. A different kind of rush, and infinitely cheaper!
On returning to Bangalore before catching the train to Jalgoan, I took the time off to have almost two weeks of facial growth removed by a professional. I have always had shaves at barbers in India because they are the most amazing thing, and cheaper than buying the blades to do it yourself! The process starts with a vigorous wetting of the face and a bit of a slap about, either with a bristle brush or by hand, followed by a knob of cream that is lathered into a formidable Father Christmas beard. The ritual of changing the razor for a brand new one is done obviously and extravagantly in front of you just to make sure that you understand that it is a new, clean and pretty damn sharp Sweeny Todd razor he is using. Sometimes this task is accompanied by an almost imperceivable glint in the eye. Then you are shaved, your skin being pinched to stretch the skin, the lathering is repeated and you have a second shave just to make sure. A quick spray of water and a rub over with a soap stone to close any open pores (that bit stings a little), then a good old Henry Cooper “splash it all over” with an after shave, normally Old Spice, or something else that is kept in an Old Spice bottle. A cloud of talc finishes it all off and then all is required is a firm “No” to any offers of head massages or additional services that will add to the bill.
The most extraordinary shave experience was had in Kochi. I had needed a shave for a while and the bristly growth was getting quite itchy. We came across a small barbers down a side street (the usual place to find them) and I poked my head through the door and asked a man hidden behind a newspaper, “How much for a shave, Guv’nor?”
A wrinkled old face appeared above the paper with ½ inch thick, bulging, convex lenses that made his eyes look like golf balls. He regarded me for a second and then in one kind of smooth action had given me the price of 15 Rs, pointed to a price list posted on the wall and while I was confirming the price he had glided me into his barbers chair and was already securing a towel around my neck. Once he had me secured he became a very old man and tottered around getting things together, not the smooth gliding actions I had just witnessed, now a doddery old geezer. It was during the changing of blades when I noticed him blinking blindly at his cutthroat razor and holding it rather too close to his face while slipping the new blade into place so as to see what he was doing. A bit like a blind man threading a needle. I looked at Eddie and saw that she was really quite enjoying the scene, I was seriously having second thoughts!
What followed was the swiftest, most skillful and confident shave I have ever experienced during my travels, and I have had quite a few! This old bloke worked like an adrenaline junkie on speed, his hands moving so fast around my face I had to close my eyes to stop myself getting dizzy. It seemed almost impossible that the hands that were shaving me actually belonged to this dithering, half blind old man.
It was all over in over in a blur. One minute, hairy and itchy, the next smooth as a baby’s bottom, feeling fresh and smelling like a tart as he removed the towel in a puff of talc. Back to his frail old self and his slow dithering manner. Years and years of shaves, from the time he started out as an apprentice fifty odd years ago, back in the time they were sharpening cut throats on leather strips, and now he can do it in his sleep. A handsome tip was given, not for the service, because a shave is a shave, but for the experience, for all those years of practice that culminated in the most amazing shave of my life, and worth every penny. I have noticed that traveling has made me appreciate the littler things in life…
