Coffee - Ooty, Tamil Nadu, India

Blood splattered across the room, narrowly missing my cup of coffee. By my feet I could hear the 'thump, thump, thump' of death. Smiling men surrounded me; Richard, the immensely proud owner, and two men – one with a rusty knife, the other with blood on his hands.

The room was filled with glorious pictures of Mecca - a place I will never be allowed to step foot in. They didn’t seem to understand, but instead, one of the men proudly gave me a trading card, a pocket Mecca if you will.

The thumping stopped. Death was upon us.

 
They picked it up by his feet, showing the carcass to Richard and I. It was skinned with surprising efficiency and whilst in the process I heard a noise. It’s last living breath squeezed out of him. I expected more, but that was it.

It was laid on a tree stump, a tree stump with pools of blood collecting in the cracks. It had clearly been used many times before. The man with the rusty knife hacked it to pieces, sawing off the tough bits.

 
And that was that.

 
We left the Halal chicken coup/stall afterwards. My coffee was finished, the sun was setting, and Richard and I were hungry. We went out for dinner. I had a chicken dish.

It was delicious.

Hoelkere and the White Man - Hoelkere, Karnataka

We were in Hoelkere. 

Five or six hands groped the chain links of our lock. I could hear murmurs of "no India, no India." And they were right, our motorcycle lock was definitely not made in India. A little girl of 6 or 7 tugged at my trousers, she looked up at me with big brown eyes. I said hello, and she ran off terrified. Clearly I was a monster. Richard was trying to kick start the bike to no avail. He was sweating in the midmorning heat, justifiably frustrated. Why wouldn't the machine work? The bike was wheeled away, almost stripped from Richard's possession. Endless bodies were trying to push Richard off, each wanting the glory of fixing the white man's bike. I looked up, left, right and around. Dozens of eyes stared back at me. Over 50 bodies poked, prodded, stared and hung off of each other, smothered in themselves. The police were now involved, randomly whacking people with their sticks and clearing people away. They just wanted a better view. And then the crowd got closer. A giant man asks us what we believe in. Richard hears and says Christian. "I am a Christian." This giant man starts preaching the Word of God to us amongst this sensational crowd. A man runs off, he can fix the bike. Richard has let him do what he wants. The man comes back with a sawed of clutch rod. Meanwhile the giant preacher asks for an email, instead, I ask for his. 

The bike starts. Finally.

The crowd starts to disperse, and, as everyone is leaving I look down at the business card the priest has given me. His name was Louis. Handsome Louis.

We were in Hoalkere. A town where a white face hadn't been seen in over a year. Richard kicked started Betsy. I swung my legs over the back, and we left Hoalkere in the dust. 

The Road to Hampi - Central Karnataka, India

The road to Hampi is not paved with good intentions, in fact, it's barely paved at all. 

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.