Hanuman Hill is a rather large hill in Karnataka, near Hampi, where Indians gather to watch their mediocre tennis star Tim Hanuman. Some claim that there are spiritual qualities in the 'Monkey Temple' found at the top of Hanuman Hill but they were soon banished to Rusedski Ridge. Here, look at the view from the top.
and the Monkey Temple
Gosh, this is nice thought the quartet (Sammit and Manish were with our original brace). The monkey temple even lived up to it’s name. Here’s one of them banging a can of Red Bull against a rock.
In all seriousness the ‘guys’ told the doublet the real story behind Hanuman Hill. Hanuman was a loyal servant of Rama. Hanuman (a monkey-man-God) did many great things but the temple near Hampi celebrates his lifting of a mountain to discover a herb, the only known cure for the injured Lakshmana. Yeah, whatever, here’s a photo of a monkey masturbating whilst holding Billy’s foot……..
Upon stumbling back to their (plain) Hampi room Billy decided it would be a good idea to perform a cover of Django Spears "No Limit' with the seed pod and the nose flute. He had always said that it was a one man band. No Limit by Billy Barrington
Across from Hampi is the little village, or hamlet (does India do hamlets?) of Viru-thingy thing. The not-so-daring duo got the motor boat across in search of beer (Hampi is a dry town). They found cows. Lots of them.
After trying to acquire a goat for travel purposes they settled on a scooter. Unluckily no proof of a driving license was necessary. This enabled Billy to drive a scooter in India, his first motorised vehicle since the ride on lawn mower accident of 2006 (?). What was India thinking?
With Lindsey becoming nervous as Billy sped carefree across the Indian countryside the scooter was stopped. Where were they? and where were they going? It was then that Sammit and Manish appeared over the horizon, bathed in sunlight. The 'guys' (as they would become known) led the lost pair to the reservoir where they swam and made merry. Manish was the devil incarna....sorry, that should read, Investment Banker, recently resigned and Sammit was a cinematic auteur who, for a living, makes occasional adverts for Mcdonalds. They are both brilliant 'guys' and you should meet them, here, meet them....
After Goa's infuriating placidity the buxom duo needed to move somewhere with a little bit of zing, pa-zaz or just any sort of life. Hampi was the destination and after a delightful train ride ( a brilliant, slightly insane experience, coming atacha in a future edition folks, don't you worry) and a less bumpy then expected rickshaw they arrived.
You want room? I give you good price? 500. 600. 450. My brother has a room. My uncle. It's a better room, you come see. They were besieged by accommodation hawkers but took it as a good opportunity to check out the interior design of Hampi's guesthouses (fairly plain).
Hampi is a small town with crazy little streets with lots of shops called Hampi bazaar and there's some big temple things like what you see below.
It used to be a big town, bigger than Bristol apparently and then it was deserted quite suddenly because of something or other. As you can tell they weren't given an official tour. No, Blindsey went on their bicycles, hard seated ruffians with little girls bells on and no gears. This was fun. Lots of fun. Lots of temples. Lots of fun. Lots of waving at schoolchildren and telling them where they were from. Always fun.
Then a water temple with turtles.
Then a river. Either turn back and cycle the 10km they'd just done or cycle across the river. What's that? A Coracle? An ancient wicker boat manned by a boy? With two bikes and three people? Across the river? There's nothing Blindsey like more than entrusting their lives (and bikes) into the hands of a 12 year old. So they did.
Later in the evening, after crossing back over to Hampi in a slightly more modern boat, they noticed that the river was quite pretty. Quite.
Tired and weary and desperate for a notebook Blindsey dropped in on a little shop. The owner had a nice smile and a far away look in his eyes. Somehow the book became a skirt became a shirt (700 rupees). Ending up in the shop Blindsey were suprised to see a man hunched over a 'Weed World' magazine rolling a cigarette (?). Whilst the tailor went to work adjusting the skirt his magazine absorbed friend began to speak, or mumble incoherently about not being let into England because his English wasn't good enough. Maybe they were right but he was very funny so he should be let in anyway. He passed the cigarette (?) to Billy. The evening tumbled slightly out of view. Nandu, the owner of the shop (tailor caste), told the uneducated Brits Hindu stories as his eyes became redder and redder. Many laughs were had if not all words were understood. Unfortunately, no photographic or audio evidence was taken, it must have slipped their minds......
Perhaps this. In Benaulim (a petite, picturesque fishing village toward the South of Goa, mainly frequented by elder package tourists people and ageing tie-dyers)a man cycles up and down the back road of the village every day honking his bicycle horn along to and with the Dawn Chorus. When first heard Billy asked Lindsey why someone was playing their recorder in very short bursts outside of Geraldo's house to what sounded like an audience of chickens? Upon further investigation the cyclist was revealed but the image of the man playing short pieces on recorder to ecstatic chickens lived on.
Crawford Market, built in part by Rudyard Kipling's father (he of exceeding good cakes), was the destination for the travelers' first full day in Mumbai (the deep fried Bombay Duck in the fish restaurant the night before could have been a wonderful substitution for cod - haddock if you're Northern - in fish and chips but the kingfish curry left them in no doubt, this was Mumbai).
Near the market the travelers were shown the way by a kindly old man who quickly revealed himself to be a money grabbing bastard. Upon arrival he pointed at the 'No Spitting' sign and looked at us. Lindsey and Billy sucked in their dribble and agreed. Thieving bastard continued to point. What was he getting at? 'Visitors must be accompanied by a porter'. Upon reading this the old man magically revealed his 'Official Porter' badge. 'Ok' they said, 'but we only want a couple of lemons to flavour our chlorine water'. The porter wasn't going to stop there....
They saw many great things in Crawford Market, red bananas, piles of melons, onions, potatoes, spices in penny sweet jars (!).
Ok, it was kind of like other markets but it had the India smell, and people sleeping in any shade they could get, and animals everywhere. Several thousand caged birds....
After being forced into a high end clothes shop the daring duo made good their escape. Diving into a taxi they did what any self respecting middle class brit abroad would do, 'Could you take us to the Anish Kapoor Exhibition please?'
After 'Never Let Me Go' (do let that film go, by all means) and a hazy half sleep the plane touched down. Luckily the captain had a midi keyboard to welcome flyers back to Earth....
The Air Conditioned estate car awaited 'Lansey Cockram' at the airport. The car park sodden and piss stained could have come out of Walthemstow, the sky, once outside, was maybe a little too blue. The tired travelers fell asleep soon enough, luckily the audio recorder was left on. When listened to it revealed that Lansey and Billy had seemingly traveled through a cacophony of bird like traffic.
Venturing outside into what should have been Mumbai (Bombay) their worst fears were proven true. They had got on the wrong plane. They were in London, or an alternate tropical version at least.
And so the adventure began. Taking a right out of their first lodgings (134 Holland Road; the house of boxes) they traversed the hectic Palmeria square crossing. It was a day much like every other, grey, cold, windy. Lindsey cut Billy's hair, Lindsey didn't trust Billy to cut her hair so went to a hairdressers. Billy sent Lazenbleep his book back. Two for one lunches at the Brunswick, Steak and Chips, Sausage and Mash. The intrepid duo were nothing if not prepared.
At the airport 'Music For Airports' by the antichrist was played. Music for Airports in an Airport. How post-something.
