Travel Journals VII Eating Lessons
The bus service in India is designed for one purpose only. That is to transport people from one place to another as close to schedule as as possible. Anything else, such as whether the passengers are actually alive and unharmed at the end of the ride, is considered a bonus. My nine hour ride to Hampi was, like so much else here, chaotic, crowded, noisy, confusing, slightly harrowing, and filled with moments of stunning beauty and unexpected kindness.The early part of the ride started out barreling down what was only to be described as a road because of the absence of trees in it. the experience was only heightened by the vehicle's apparent lack of shocks. (most motorised transport throughout India either dates from the late seventies or was inspired by it ) this would have been a truly terrifying ride if it weren't for the fact that my attention was riveted by the enormous tracts of jungle and mountains we were driving through. It was spectacular and portions of this landscape simply need to be seen to be believed. by the time we had returned to civilisation to pick up more passengers it was becoming obvious that I was the first westerner most of my fellow riders had seen. some of them used the opportunity to practice their English with the standard questions (what is your good name? what is your country?) but most just treated me with the open silent curiosity due to non Indians. Eventually the seats next to me were filled by three tiny little girls. we had a fascinating conversation that consisted entirely of facial expressions, gestures, and a lot of giggling. one by one they fell asleep, the smallest one leaning against me (a big transition from several hours ago when she was openly sceptical about sitting next to this large, strangely colored man).
Sometime after dark we pulled into another anonymous bus station and one of the two conductors looked at me, pointed at his mouth and gestured for me to follow. when i didn't immediately come along he repeated the motions more emphatically. the driver explained "here is where we stop for dinner, come if you want food" (it should be said that after an entire day on a bus my uptake wasn't the quickest). I followed the crew to a tiny restaurant that i would have never been able to find and could not relocate on a bet. The waiter instead of handing over a menu simply nodded and set the tables. i was shown where i could wash my hands and asked without words to wait. shortly thereafter a small middle aged man with a white mustache and black hair and beard who i recognised from the bus sat down across from me. As the waiter was setting out the chapati, a man in a khaki colored police uniform walked in. after the standard Indian inquiries as to my name, nationality and marital status, the police man pointed at my plate and instructed me to tear up the flat bread. "like this man". the guy with the white mustache perked up immediately at the prospect of being a visual aid and proceeded to dissect his chapati for my benefit. the police then informed me that this is how Indian men ate, not with a spoon like you are used to. (i hadn't the heart to tell him I'd been eating native style for well over two weeks) this is how the rest of the meal progressed. the policeman would instruct me as to the proper method of mixing dal and salad or the finer points of eating rice with your fingers all the while aided by exacting demonstrations from the man across from me. this was interspersed with gentle interrogation as to my career, travel plans, and opinions on any number of subjects from Indian women to international politics. i would answer all these as carefully and politely as i could between mouthfuls and my replies were dutifully translated by the police to the other occupants of the restaurant to be mulled over and commented on. eventually the cop decided it was time to leave (his presence in the restaurant remained somewhat of a mystery as he never ate anything) he offered me his hand to shake and i glanced down in mild horror at my own rice coated paw. he just laughed and executed a swift left handed shake before disappearing into the night. the driver and the conductors followed shortly after. i hastily paid and my table mate helped me find the bus station again.
several hours later i was unceremoniously decanted in Hospet and left to explain to a licenced bandit in an auto rickshaw that i knew perfectly well it didn't cost two hundred rupee to get to a guesthouse in Hampi no matter what time of night it was.
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