hampi day one part two CONVULUTED

had intended to rejoin the others at one point or another but they were not present at the hotel. Presuming they were 1. lost, 2. dead or 3. had maliciously abandoned me, I took a nice satisfying nap on the outdoor bed at the hotel, dropping off just as (without my knowledge) the Holi festival reached its raucous 1 PM climax.

I was awakened by the sound of the others thumping up the stairs erupting in giggles, covered (not surprisingly) head to foot in powder in pink and blue and yellow, dripping wet. They were disappointed to find I was relatively pristine. Lorraine noted, "We were taking bets - we figured you'd either come back absolutely covered in it or spotless."

I must justify myself: I did not set out to avoid participating in Holi, it just sort of happened, mostly because I managed to avoid what was apparently the pulsing center of the celebration down by the river. Everyone else partied with the Indians and the boys even jumped into the river, disregarding the big DEADLY WHIRLPOOL DO NOT SWIM signs that crop up periodically on the boulders. Well, you only live once. Or are sucked into a whirlpool. I do wish I'd managed to participate more fully, but after seeing the state of their clothes (and noticing over the next few days that that shit don't come off easy), I felt a little better about missing out on the craziness. I looked slightly smug and dozed off again as they all took showers.

The rain started pissing down with fervor and malice again, and everyone else went up for a late lunch. I curled up on my mildewy floor mattress and dozed off to sleep again, raindrops coming in through the screen window and pinging off my head. (oh, i am living in a constant state of dampness, i will start contracting mildew spores beneath my skin.)

We wandered around downtown Hampi in a disassociated manner for the rest of the evening, regarding dazed looking Western hippies splattered with color weave in and out of the temples and tourist shops. (Why don't European hippies ever wear bras? Is there some sort of unspoken code?)

The others went into the Virupaksha temple but I stayed behind, unwilling to hand over my shoes and socks in the continuing drizzle, unwilling to splash through the mud and gunk of the floors. I dropped to a comfortable crouch and watched the shoes with the young girl shoe attendant, who asked me my name with a sort of amiable disinterest. (She and her father spent the next few minutes laughing and kicking about the damp shoes in the rain, splashing water and each other and the stray dogs that went by.)

Hindu families had turned out from all over to visit the temple on Holi and faded in and out of the structure, dodging the equally large monkey clan that lived among the ruins, cadging donations from the symbolic baskets of coconut and banana and jasmine flowerers worshippers purchased at the door. One monkey ran down a couple of young men and ripped the basket out of their hands, everyone in the courtyard erupting into laughter at the sight of the mugging, the men looking embarrassed as anything. (But what can you do?) An old dog stood out in the open and quivered pathetically as the rain kicked up again, woofing without conviction at the monkeys that tormented him from the rafters, clinging to protuberant statues of Shiva and various attendants. I was entertained.

Despite the rain, the others decided to walk up the granite hill to the Royal Center. I followed damply, muttering to myself about mad dogs and Englishmen, but they tactfully ignored me. We ducked under the trees in the growing darkness to see the Ganesh temple, spotlighted elegantly in the evening. Unfortunately, the perturbed looking park attendant locked the gate after us. "You will have to go the other way,"
he shrugged, and a couple of laughing teenage boys led us on a trail through the slick and slippery rocks, weaving through the ruins in the growing darkness.

I was reminded with slightly painful nostalgia of the scent of the Utah desert rocks, right after thunderstorm, and I went a little wild, ricocheting gleefully off rocks and slithering off overhangs, as the others demanded I COME DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT NOW DON'T SLIP STOP DEFACING THE RUINS FAINE YOU ARE A WACKJOB

(I have heard these words from so many people over the years in reference to my behavior and they are all entirely true, and i will doubtless die of a blunt force injury some day or fall off something or be et by a cobra/feral pig/cannibal for not heeding them -but -but -i do so enjoy myself...)

In any case, we emerged into the damp and gloppy streets of Hampi again, passing by a couple of menacing bulls with particularly floppy humps and curving horns. We returned to the Villa and readied for dinner, Adam and I vying for possession of the nice wicker porch swing.

The others pulled themselves together and we departed. Unfortunately, I was obeying the terrible and vicious genetic imperative of what I like to call Dupuy Murderous Hunger, wherein people like my mother and myself suddenly become homocidal beasts in pursuit of sweet, sweet calories. Unfortunately no one else understands, simply becoming increasingly distressed as our eyes grow wild and our retorts become even sharper and nastier then usual - WE NEED FOOD. (Back me up mom.)

They did not understand and I stalked through the streets behind them in an increasingly dire state of bitchy hunger as they dispensed with various restaurant choices. Aneesa had noted that the Shanthi Riverside Restaurant looked busy and we popped our heads in, to be told there would be some sort of interminable wait. To add insult to injury the food was pizza, which I do not like one bit. (By way of explaination: I can eat pizza far too quickly. Also I dislike bread.)

In any case, I completely gave up and went across the street to get some gosh darn Indian food - palak masala and fruit salad, bam, done. Ate and paid. They were still waiting. We decided to play some sort of weird 20 questions Guess Who I Am game. (Chris was Scary Spice. This makes me laugh.)

We waited. Hippies flopped over on the couches provided for their hippie lounging pleasure, beneath deeply distressing black light neon posters featuring naked chicks and shrooms and Tolkien imagery. I ordered another watermelon mint juice. (Yum.)

And waited some more. It was by now after ten and the others were Very Hungry, as food appeared at sub glacial rates from the dark and mysterious kitchen. I considered snuggling up with the hippies on the couches to get some shut-eye. However, I am trying to avoid contracting head lice.

The evening wore on and the hippies began to file out, the owner shutting down the lights and clearing the tabes. We were left in a pool of light in the darkness and still the food had not arrived. The owner shrugged and looked non-commital, and finally Julie got some potatoes. Then the pizzas arrived. Which were eaten in irritated silence.

Lorraine, entirely understandably, tried to convince the stoney-faced owner that they should only pay half price, but he insisted he was the nice guy here - "Hey, I have to close down at 11! I was very kind to you to serve you at all." Protests that he'd said earlier the food would take an hour tops fell on deaf ears as the wait staff (and me) yawned all around us, the rain kicking up outside. We gave up and went outside and splattered to the mud.

My bed was unfortunately still damp.