So...
A road so bad it looks like a freeze-frame of a landslide…
A man so swarthy you can actually see his beard growing…
A statue of a cow, so effeminate it looks like a bull in drag…
The road so terrible, and yet the road the route from Mangalore to Bangalore, two very flourishing cities… and one, Bangalore, probably making its mark on history…
And yet the roads so truly awful you think… well this country must have tens of thousands of bus mechanics… who are so good at their jobs they can keep their old and battered machines going over these horribly degenerated roads… so, if they’ve all these amazing engineers, these mechanics, can’t they build decent roads?… why don’t they?… is it some bunch of Brahmins giving each other money all skimming off the top till they can’t build a decent road?… while the mechanics, well…the guys who build the space shuttle could learn something from these miracle workers
And …
And we’re not even sure what language it is that we’re not understanding
And written on the back of map of Mangalore…
And the temple complex at Belur, and another at Halebid, and a nice temple at Belevada… the remains of yet another lost Indian kingdom… the Hoysala, which flowered here for centuries having defeated the Cholas… similar remnants of lost wealth and pride and glory and artisanry seen in Khajuraho,…
And drums and sax within the dark temple space
And lines of little white shoes against wall over the trail from the temple filled with uniformed schoolkids
And super-intricate three dimensional stone-friezes
And seven headed serpents
And more sinister beehives high in the temple, their surfaces rippling and bulging
And thousands of figurines carved on the outer walls of each temple
And, while Priscilla is Princesczilla, a queen to the schoolkids who crowd around here smiling, I neatly become inconspicuous and laugh unnoticed at her from a peaceful thirty metres
And the statues evidence the longstandingness of the male fascination with large breasts
And swastikas and stars of david… the swastikas rounded… and the stars with a point at the centre
And sweaty men beside heaps of [sweet potatoes?] in newly emptied field
And a thousand bugs in our otherwise nice hotel room… all wiped out by electric coil within two hours
And frequent powercuts
And the friendly faces smiling and helloing from the powercut dusk of this tourist-free small town
And bloody cold showers…why?… because getting water that cold in southern
And as the Indians get wealthier, and move about more, ancient treasures like these are going to get overwhelmed
And its slightly annoying to have battled five bumbumping crashbangy hours from Mangalore and yet be no nearer
And bloody docx files bloody hell… am I alone in this?... Is there an anti-Docx league?… a large subgroup of the anti-Microsoft league?
And is it right the word car comes from
And a green land, here dry, here pondside lush
And the fields… sunflowers and haystacks and infant cowherds
And 50 crops… potatoes… corn… chilli… melons…cabbage… hothouse tomatoes… cardamom … peanuts drying on roadside tarpaulins… coffee… rubber… bananas… palms … most unidentified
And the bus-driver pulling peanut branches for us to eat from the adjacent overstacked lorry
And three different kinds of heron on one small muddy islet
And ribcage cows rub sides against trees
And women kneeling in field in temple grounds thump clods of earth apart
And a huge black bird like an elongated vulture
And the canny tuktuk driver freewheels gasfree down long windy hill
And the agonised kid bird, its cry like a tortured boy
Before the dark god, garlanded in white, in dark alcove at dark end of dark passage
...
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