Richard and I left Goa in the early hours of the morning, while the sun was still rising, and the locals spat their toothpaste into the main roads. Syanara we said, and hit the dusty trail, literally.
We had already crossed through 3 river crossings before we hit National Highway 4. NH 4 looked as though the D-Day invasion had taken place and no one had thought to pick up the pieces. If it was paved, you wouldn't have known. Crater sized potholes dotted the road, as red dust kicked up into our faces. Looking into the distance my eyes were blessed with the sight of dozens, and dozens, and dozens of trucks, each vying for their space on the road. If we managed 20km/hr it would have been a successful one.
It was only when we reached NH 63, that a thought occurred to me. With over 200 national highways, India must have a system for maintaining them. NH 4 had probably not been touched since the day of India's independence over 50 years ago. Which would explain the pleasant-ish journey along NH 63.
We reached Hampi.
Hampi is a World Heritage Site, amongst the big guns, like Angkor Wat and Banff National Park. It has huge boulders thrown all over the landscape, like if God were playing marbles. The main Bazaar's focal point is a temple, with loads of cows, mangy dogs, cheeky monkeys, and little boys selling post cards.
Hampi is also a religious town. Free from sinners (at least until Richard and I arrived) and sins, like that blasphemous meat we call chicken. Oh, and its dry. Drier than the Sahara dessert dry. It was like the days of prohibition, except during those days, you could still get your hands on a piece of steak or a chicken wing.
Hampi though, is a really cool place, one of best places I have passed through. The locals are relaxed, illegal bootleg booze and chicken is available - if you ask discreetly, and the temples throughout the area are nothing short of impressive.
The road to Hampi may not be paved with good intentions, but the town itself sure is.
No comments:
Post a Comment