“I let myself go under the mango tree” said Mareike.

The Mango Tree was a lovely restaurant out of a small family home built of local clay under the thick low-spreading branches the mango tree with a swing hanging down from the sturdiest branch. To reach this restaurant you have to walk far west of the main village out along the river and then at one bend in the footpath branch off into the rows and rows of bannana trees, following just one narrow signed path which in the dark without a flashlight is treacherous. Under the mango tree you sit on reed mats on the ground, look out over the bend in the river blow, watch the sunset setting in blazes of orange oozing rainbow fire over the jutting rounded boulder heads on the horizon. The food is excellent and luckily takes forever to arrive, with candles and dancing shadows we all eat together family style and know its time to go when we drowsily begin to fade away, often snoozing simultaniously without noticing, awaking later feeling drunk with sleep and pawing out way back through the dark to the guesthouse.

After the first week the three of us moved to the other side of the river and then were presented with the additonal problem of how to cross the river again late at night. The river was possible to cross in one place during the day with difficulty, almost always getting soaked up to the waste in the process. The problem was at night this path through the reeds and shifting sand flows was almost impossible to find, the rushing water strong enough in places to sweep you away (or soak your whole bag – eeek the camera) if you erred. We discovered that after much whistling and waiting it was possible to have the boatman fetched (presumedly woken up) from the village, arriving with his oar under his arm and an outragious price 30 times the norm on his lips. The missing element in us just rowing our selves across was the oars. At first we called the boatman, then we searched around and found the place where he hid the spare oar. After leaving it and the pirated boats on the far side of the river he was on to us and took all the oars with him, sometimes smiling and cursing us when he saw our faces during the day saying “you steal boat! I know it!” One night we were totally stuck, the boatman could not be awoken and the spare oar was not there – I walked up the road, jumped over the wall of one plantation and returned with a palm branch. A perfect natural oar for the round ferry boats (the boats woven from reedy basket material coated in a black tarry substance), we expertly navigated the currents and used that method from then on out. I always insisted on rowing the ferry (full of sometimes sceptical and nervous foreigners) during the day when we did pay, hard work that maybe made up for our night-time delinquence to the boat man.

One eveing when out walking with Cathy and Merieke in the now deserted far east region of the ancient walled capitol they both ganged up on me and stole my lunghi (the lower body covering sheet worn by South Indians) and I was left cahsing after them in my boxers, the security rangers eventually coming over to us in the ruins and laughing about my predicament. I demanded they force the theiving girls to return my clothes. Finally they capitulated and together we walked with the guards to the Vithala Temple, one of the only things in Hampi with an entry fee (and a large $10 one at that). I guess the guards were turned on by the two bold women because as the sun set they looked around conspiritorially and asked if we would like to take a free look inside the temple since it was after hours. We then were led around the crown jewel of the Vijaynagar (city of victory) Empire’s architecture, five people alone in the late twilight, the guards excitedly striking the small highly-decorated pillars in the temple courtyard to show us how each sounded out diffent notes exactly like the musical instruments carved on them.

Another day while climbing up one of the many hills in the area (this was the same hill we went up unsucessfully to watch the sunrise the first morning) we poked our heads in a little opening in wavy boulders off to one side and saw some light. Going inside the opening we entered a small room then followed a dark passage at its back with my flashlight until it became so narrow that only a thin person turning sideways could proceed. At the end of this crack we ducked into a secret chamber with a stone lingam inside (the lingam is an object of worship and represents the sacred life-giving chaotic organ of the Lord Shiva) standing in a shallow yoni (the yoni is a dish meant to represent the female organ and often serves as the base of a lingam to catch and redirect liquid offerings flowing off its surface). These hills, like the boulder piles, adult jungle gyms, clean between and mottled with light hold thousands of tunnels, expereinces, artifacts, carving, pottery shards, and suprises inside.

Unlike the others, this entry was written as just a list of notes. Here are some I have not deciphered yet: Rainbow Pete in Holland. Full service baba. Narasimha releif. Growing groaning. Losing my program. Cakes cakes cakes. Shanti lodge. Big dipper and Royal Enclosure. Any ideas?