Honey: Selected Journals from the Years Away
From Book IV: In Ponda
14.1.17 to 18.1.17: Hampi, India

 

I reached the ruins after a long night on an uncomfortable bus. It was not an ideal trip. First of all, the seats on the bus reclined so far back that the head of the person in front of you was practically in your lap. This was really only convenient if you intended on braiding their hair. You had to sit very still in order to not disturb them, while simultaneously hating their complete existence.

Second of all, I’d developed this condition called Restless Leg Syndrome. It’s something doctors can’t explain, or don’t feel particularly moved to explain. RLS makes it so that if you don’t move your legs every so often this horrible queasiness starts up in your calves and feet. I think I got it from Grandma. It seems most interested in affecting you in the seated position, when you’re just minding your own business – which I was, for twelve hours, across the barren countryside from Goa to Hampi.

I’d booked my journey through Paulo Travels, the company that LP recommended for backpackers. Paulo had a weird Jesus thing that went unexplained. The bus had his smiling face plastered along its length, giving passersby a thumbs-up. Their promotional material was infused with biblical quotes. I personally didn’t see much connection between long-distance travel and Christ, but maybe they did.

The other thing about Paulo was that they fucking sucked. It was as if once they’d gotten LP’s seal of approval they’d abandoned all attempts at quality, and were just hoping that nobody from LP Headquarters came to check up on them. The bus arrived two hours late, careening into Paulo’s designated ditch beside one of Panaji’s many roundabouts. By then it was 6:00PM, and the sun had set, and I was quietly wondering where I’d spend the night if Paulo didn’t come through.

Along for the ride was a gaggle of tourists. None of us were speaking, probably because the only thing to talk about was how pissed we were. There was a father and son from Sweden, an ambivalent-looking woman with dreads chain-smoking cigarettes, a Canadian couple, and a petite Chinese girl with bleach-blonde pigtails. She had a pronounced scar running along her jaw from ear to ear. Maybe it was her pink short-shorts and kimono robe, but she seemed completely unaware that she was in a foreign country. After we’d boarded she approached the driver, saying: “Are there any beds available in front? It’s a little cold in back.” The driver looked as if she was speaking another language. Which, to him, she probably was.

Because we left late we didn’t stop for dinner. It was starting to feel like Paulo might be starving us for His own amusement. I was in one of eight seats, priced abysmally low; and so it wasn’t long before RLS seized its opportunity. When it did I went searching for an empty bunk, and found the back two unoccupied. I hopped into the top one and lay down to sleep, bouncing along to the rhythm of the tires.

At 2:00AM the curtain was thrown back. I thought I was being evicted. It was the driver. He said: We’re switching buses.

Soon we were on the side of the road. Paulo’s disciples opened the trunk and tossed our belongings onto the shoulder. Everything was covered in red dust, kicked up from our arrival. The scene swam in headlights. It seemed as though the new bus was heading from Hampi to Goa – our exact opposite. Even in my late-night haze I could tell there was no conceivable reason for this. If anything, it would’ve made more sense to switch drivers. Regardless, this certainly wasn’t protocol. We waited there, surrounded by a landscape of infinite black, as workers moved items and people. A group of girls went to pee in the woods. All the beds were spoken for on this new bus – some unaccountable magic. The Canadian couple stood at their shared bunk, holding a scribbled ticket. “We paid for these,” the man kept saying. It struck me then, perhaps more than ever before, that whatever loose logic we were clinging to – structure, entitlement, morality – it didn’t exist out here. I sat down in my seat. We hurtled backward, and my legs writhed on.

We arrived the next morning at 6:00AM. The guides were already swarming. They were banging their palms on Jesus’ head, running alongside the bus, brandishing rudimentary maps. They were going at it as if trying to climb aboard – yelling about rickshaws and hotels, making it impossible to simply plant your feet and decide your next move. I didn’t blame them. We’d created the market for such a thing, with our guidebooks and cameras and good walking shoes. Our very presence reeked of potential profit.

I was lucky, because someone was waiting for me: Kiran, of Kiran’s Guest House. This was where I’d booked my stay. I hadn’t been expecting anyone. I was so surprised that I nearly hugged him. Kiran had a wide face and a thin mustache. He also had a rickshaw. He led me into the backseat and started the engine, guiding us along the presiding remains. We passed oblong-shaped boulders, balanced precariously atop the rock face.

Kiran said that motor vehicles weren’t allowed in Hampi’s Bazaar, where his guesthouse was; and so he circled around back, gliding into a thin alleyway. The Bazaar was a sandy grid of crumbling buildings. It offered none of Goa’s niceties – no stucco verandas, no thatched huts, no gleaming high-rises. I’d been spoiled. Everything here was squat, made of unpolished concrete, bolstered by handwritten signs for tourist services.

We arrived at Kiran’s. A shower curtain hung over the carved-out doorframe. Next to the building was a recently plowed field, overlooking the river below: a massive thoroughfare of rock formations, water rushing through ravines. At its banks you could see the locals bathing, swimming, washing clothes. It was early, but they were already there.

Kiran did right by me. I’d booked a single room with a shared bath at Rs. 600/night. It turned out that my room was still occupied – occupied by the possessions of some girl who’d gotten sick and been rushed to the hospital in Hospet. No one knew when she’d be back. So Kiran said I could have a double room with a private bath for the same price. He said: Just don’t tell the neighbors, or my parents. I was so thankful to not be given the runaround that I nearly hugged him again.

The room was a baby blue cube, filled almost entirely by two twin mattresses sandwiched together. A pink mosquito net hung overhead. It was tied in a complex knot, looking like a lavish hairstyle swinging in the breeze. I lay down to the sounds of the day beginning, and the endless churn of the river below.

~~~

Hampi had the peculiar distinction of being both a recently developed tourist trap and a heavily visited pilgrimage site. These two directives already appeared to be in conflict with each other. It was only just beginning. But I’d been around long enough to know when a place was struggling with competing identities.

That weekend was particularly crowded. There was a festival taking place, and domestic travelers had flocked to the area in celebration. Hampi’s main attraction, Sri Virupaksha Temple – a compound fronted by a pyramid of intricate carvings, teeming with rock-climbing monkeys – was densely packed, and probably best avoided if I’d known better. Through the pyramid was the central pavilion, currently populated by every conceivable type of Indian: old women with worn skin, hobbling across the ageless ground in colorful saris; well-to-do couples, the men wielding selfie sticks and the women donning floppy hats; young dudes in knockoff shades, perched lazily on the stony steps, hanging off each other’s shoulders; families with large broods, moving like schools of fish in no discernable direction. Some had spread out blankets, and were taking full-on meals in the atrium, washing dishes in public spouts. Others were carrying flowers and coconuts, smashing the fruit over bronzed lions and pouring the milk down relatives’ throats. It was easy to forget that this was a holy site, simply because of how functional it was. It held none of the self-seriousness of western religion. I’d never eaten so much as a mint in a church. Then again, I’d never enjoyed myself in a church either. In that sense, this was preferable.

To access the temple’s inner sanctum, you purchased a Rs. 5 ticket from a man inside a metal cage at the pavilion’s center. It made sense that he was in a metal cage, because everyone was fighting to get to him. It looked like those Black Friday videos where people are punching each other to get the last blender. You elbowed your way in, pressed your money through the grate, and screamed until he gave you a tiny slip of paper. When I came out my shirt was entirely unbuttoned.

Through a checkpoint, I followed the queue to where an elephant stood hunched beneath a low ceiling, surrounded by people holding out hands. In each palm was either a coin or a bill, which the elephant would take in her trunk and pass back to her handler. If you gave her a bill she’d touch your head, ostensibly blessing you. She was a pretty smart elephant, knowing the difference between bills and coins. I thought it was a sad life, having to stand there all day taking money, unable to do the things an elephant would presumably rather be doing. But she looked happy enough, eating from a pile of bamboo at her feet. Her name was Lakshmi.

The queue took me into a long, unmoving line, which led to the main shrine – but I got out, because it didn’t seem worth the wait. For everyone else, though, it was worth the wait. They’d come here specifically to worship before that idol. I couldn’t fathom waiting in a line like that for anything, let alone an idol. It seemed primitive – stupid, even – to come so far for an object. But I knew that was the existentialist in me. I knew that I envied them. They were tapping into communion, entering something. And there I was alone, with my camera and sunglasses, unable to enter anything.

On my way back I ran into a girl I’d met at Old Quarter in Panaji. We’d been sitting at the communal table – her working on her thesis, me pretending to write – when she’d mentioned needing to print some documents. I’d jumped at the chance, because she was beautiful, and I had my shop a few blocks away. So she’d emailed me the documents, and I’d put them on my USB; then we’d gone to the print shop before taking lunch at some chic Portuguese restaurant. I hadn’t even learned her name. Her email signature said Hans, but I was pretty sure that was a boy’s name. It was too late to ask.

Now she was in Hampi, looking flustered. She’d also arrived via Paulo, with similar bad luck. Her camera lens had broken in transit, and she’d come here specifically the photograph the ruins. There was something paradoxical about being trapped in such a place with no means of capturing it. So she’d booked herself on a bus to Bangalore the following morning, where she knew she could get her lens fixed. I asked: Are you coming back? She said no – she was going to scrap Hampi altogether. She seemed ashamed of this decision, as if it’d revealed something she hadn’t known about herself. I again jumped at the chance, because she was still beautiful, and I had nothing going on. I said: Let’s have dinner tonight before you leave. We agreed to meet at a place called Ravi’s Rose.

Ravi’s Rose was highlighted in LP for its Special Lassis. This was a euphemism for lassis laced with weed. It was a dimly lit rooftop of dark red pillows and hippie-printed mattress pads. It looked like a smarmy adult playpen. Hans was already there, sipping a beer. Technically meat, alcohol, and drugs were prohibited in Hampi because it was a religious site. But the burgeoning tourist scene had created a market, and Ravi was happy to provide.

The owner was actually sitting with Hans when I arrived. Maybe he was Ravi, or maybe he was someone else. Either way, he had his arm draped casually across the pillow behind her. I guess he had the same idea I did. I asked: What’s good here? He said: The Special Lassi. I said: I’ll have one of those then. He said: Strong or Medium? I said: Medium. He hopped up to place the order. I sat down across from Hans.

She looked different than she had earlier. She’d showered, and appeared clean and calm, wearing a boxy long-sleeved dress of red-and-white patterns. She was from the Netherlands, tall and broad-shouldered, with porcelain skin and wide, perfectly circular eyes. Part of her calmness was due in part to her decision to stay on in Hampi. It was too much work to get to Bangalore, so she was going to tough it out. She seemed at peace with this decision – as if a burden had been lifted off her, even if the decision went against her immediate desires. I knew that feeling. She’d actually called her mom and had a bit of a mental breakdown over the thing. It was comforting to know that other people were having mental breakdowns too.

Ravi returned with the Special Lassi, placing it on the table before me. He said: “Happy Journeys.” It tasted like banana. I was of the belief that it wouldn’t do anything. Hans ordered lasagna and I ordered pasta. I was starting to think that “Hans” might be something of a name-prequel. Hans Christian Anderson’s friends probably just called him Christian. This meant that I was having dinner with someone whose name I didn’t know, which obviously added to the allure.

Soon two other foreigners arrived. Maybe-Hans looked up in recognition. It was unclear whether this meeting was planned or happenstance. Regardless, they all knew each other from a hostel in Anjuna called Funky Monkey. I was realizing that this was not altogether uncommon. There was a shared trajectory for backpackers in India: the North, then Mumbai to Goa to Hampi to Kerala. It wasn’t unheard of for travelers to reenter your story without communication. In this way we were runners on a track, gaining and trailing each other, tracing along the cyclical nature of the things. I’d joined late, but I was in it too.

I was also realizing that I was high. The Special Lassi hit me hard, square in some integral place. I was realizing that it wasn’t the smartest idea to drink this. The magnitude of my situation crystalized. I was sitting with three strangers – one of whom I was actively trying to sleep with – thousands of miles from home, with no plans and no future and not much else.

At which point I started diverting my energy toward appearing normal, and not letting on that I was now analyzing every element of life down to the molecular level. I did this by trying to remind myself that one day this feeling would leave. But I didn’t know that with any certainty, because I didn’t know what I had ingested.

One of the arrivals was British. The other was Polish. They both ordered Special Lassis before I could warn them. The Pole was baby-faced, with hair jelled into a faux-hawk, wearing what looked to be eyeliner. The Brit was small and hairy, with darting eyes – but he had that British wit about him, speaking quickly and quietly, mostly in innuendos I didn’t understand. I was now trying to gauge whether or not he was also interested in Maybe-Hans, because if he was he was winning. She seemed delighted by his innuendos, and was in fact moving across the river the following morning to their hostel. Apparently another hippie enclave had cropped up across the quarry, full of waterfront restaurants and motorbike rentals and internet cafes – and now the Brit was offering to help her move. I sat there stupidly, thinking: I simply cannot. I was high.

Maybe-Hans announced that she was leaving. Perhaps the Special Lassis had begun their work on the Brit and the Pole, and being the only coherent member of our party was unbearable. She stood, looking like a giant in that cramped space. She turned to me and said: “If you want to ride bikes tomorrow we can.” The proposition filled me with such joy that I nearly wept. Instead I gave her my number. I waited for what felt to be an appropriate period of time before taking my leave. Ravi came with the check. I fumbled with my bills, handing over an ambiguous wad. He could’ve asked for any amount – I would’ve paid it. I looked back at the Brit and the Pole, who were staring blankly out in front of them. The Brit said: “It feels like we’re on a Spanish rooftop right now.” I paused for a moment, in that eerie silence, and could almost feel myself transported to Spain. It was as if I’d been teleported there, without my knowledge or consent. I knew I had to get out. I got to the staircase, grappling for earth; I visualized myself falling, cracking my head against iron, blood seeping into dirt. It felt so real that it might as well have happened – an alternate timeline with just as much validity as my own. I stumbled through the Bazaar, down the streets of dust and sand. On the corner was a towering black man being dragged into the shadows by a tiny local. The black man pleaded: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go.” This scene would have baffled me even if I’d been lucid. I had no wherewithal to question it now. I crept passed them, back to Kiran’s, into my room, locked the door. I was high.

At which point I felt it all come down upon me. I lay down in bed, and felt a great sense of personal understanding. I didn’t like what I saw. I saw something convoluted, manipulated by self-interest, broken. I saw a deep chasm of fear, sprawled out on an inevitable journey I couldn’t turn away from. I saw the reasons for my actions, and the reason for my return. I’d come back to heal my injured pride – to destroy what had destroyed me. I saw myself as the destroyer now, of these lives and so much more. I saw myself for the terrible person I was, and it scared me. It scared me because I knew I couldn’t change it. I would wake the next morning and continue on this circular track. We weren’t in control of anything not already determined by our own subconscious. I finally understood why people travelled so far to worship before an idol. If you could give yourself over to something, maybe that thing could give you salvation. I wanted it too. I was no different.

When I woke the next morning my throat was excruciatingly dry. Sunlight was pouring through the barred window, along with sounds from the adjacent farm: a cow groaning, a woman hanging sheets. My first thought was to wonder if the Brit and the Pole had made it back to their hostel. They drank the Lassis, and had to cross the river in darkness. I’d seen their faces. They’d been terrified.

I slipped on my sandals and went to the café next door. There was a message waiting from Maybe-Hans. She was moving her things across the river, but would come back to ride bikes. According to WhatsApp, her name was Joelle.

~~~

The Chill Out sat directly next to Kiran’s Guest House, and was one of many ubiquitous rooftop eateries in Hampi’s Bazaar. It was often empty, had passable wi-fi, and played what sounded like a concert album by Men at Work on constant repeat. On Kiran’s other side was a place called the Old Chill Out, which according to the Chill Out’s owner was actually the New Chill Out. One of his former employees had opened his own restaurant, and was now claiming to be the Original Chill Out. I immediately vowed never to dine there in an act of solidarity. The Chill Out’s owner seemed indifferent about the split. Tracing the surrounding roofs was a posse of tricky monkeys, occasionally hopping onto a patio only to be chased off by a broom-wielding grandma. The sound would erupt through the street, heads turning to witness the accused monkey clamor up a drainpipe in escape.

As I waited for Joelle, I contemplated the bizarre change that had come over me. It was as if the Special Lassi had unlocked something pivotal. The immediate effects had worn off, but the reverberations hadn’t. I was left with something that had eluded me until this point: fear, and vulnerability. I realized where I was, what I was doing, how I’d told no one about it. It took a specific amount of balls to wander into the wilderness. But it also took a level of obliviousness – the belief that you are untouchable. I didn’t feel that now. I felt scared. An imperative blindness had left me, and now I had to face it. Goa had been easy. Things were different out here.

The matter wasn’t helped by the fact that I had to spend the day with someone, let alone someone I was trying to impress. One of the things that had brought Joelle and I together was the presumed breadth of our travels. At our lunch in Panaji she’d summarized her eighteen months abroad: Russia, Pakistan, motorbiked through Ladakh, trekked in the Himalayas. I’d holed up in Goa for five months, then flown to Japan. Maybe she assumed I knew what I was doing because I’d located a print shop. But really I had no idea at all. Now I was wishing I could regain some of my dumb confidence, preferably before she showed up.

Joelle arrived, and we rented two single-speed bikes from one of the Bazaar’s numerous vendors. Our first destination was Vittala Temple, which LP called “the undisputed highlight of the Hampi ruins.” We cycled west along the water, until the dusty trail gave way to a rocky path – impassable by bike. We locked them to a signpost and continued on foot. Below, the river had swelled and deepened. You could see hawkers in rafts the size of trashcan lids, offering passage across. I’d loaned Joelle my camera, and it turned out she was rather knowledgeable about photography. I’d had the camera for seven years and didn’t know anything. I thought the reason my pictures were coming out blurry was because of air pollution. She said it was because I wasn’t telling the camera what to focus on. I felt dumb.

Vittala Temple was a rectangular compound surrounded by a wall of stone. A sign at the gate read: Indians, Rs. 30; Foreigners, Rs. 500. I was all for a mark-up, but this felt offensive. They could’ve at least printed it on two different signs. An old British couple appeared beside us. The man said: “We came all this way. We might as well go in.” His wife shrugged.

“It’s quite awful,” the man continued. “Trash everywhere. And the public urination.”

“And the heat,” his wife added. The man scrunched up his face and nodded. Both were sweating profusely, incredibly flushed, dressed entirely in khaki. They wore multi-pocketed vests and pith helmets, and had cameras around their necks. Joelle and I decided it wasn’t worth the price. We turned back.

We headed for the outer ruins, lesser known and more affordable. Joelle needed an ATM. Kiran said the closest one was in Kamalapur, 5km south of Hampi. Up the hill behind the Bazaar, it became clear how rural things were. The landscape was infinite fields, punctuated by teetering rock. The roadside was empty, save for the occasional cart pulled by a pair of oxen. The eyes of their sun-darkened masters followed us as we huffed past. Joelle and I were panting, red-cheeked, foreheads shimmering. The sun beat down in its ambivalent way.

Kamalapur was a wasteland of deserted structures and wooden shacks. It seemed absurd that so close to Hampi – known internationally for its magnificent temples – could be so much of nothing. The road forked at a makeshift bus stand and a consortium of peeling buildings. One of them had the Bank of India logo painted on it. I told Joelle to wait with the bikes, and wandered into the gravel lot. All the doors were locked except for one. Inside, an open ledger sat on a wooden desk. I didn’t recognize the language. I called out – nothing. Everyone was gone.

I turned back, bracing myself in the doorframe, shielding my eyes from the sun – and there, across the lot, I saw a horse. It was leaning against the opposite building. It had a smooth brown coat and a thick dark mane. I moved closer and saw its wide eyes: two black, unmoving marbles. Its lips were parted slightly, barring white teeth. It was dead. There was a dead horse leaning against this wall. It looked so newly dead, so immaculately beautiful, that it may as well have been sleeping. But it wasn’t.

I went back to Joelle. In my absence the locals had begun to inch forward, creeping out from their hiding places. They encircled us casually, multiplying in numbers. I addressed the group: “Why is this horse here?” No one answered. “Is someone coming to collect it? Is there someone we should call?” They only stared. A hand touched my shoulder. It belonged to a middle-aged man, his remaining teeth pressed into a yellow smile. “I stay in a village,” he said. “Okay,” I said. “It is 80km from here,” he said. “Okay,” I said. “Sometimes I take foreigners there,” he said. “They come, and we smoke, and party.” “Okay,” I said. Things were devolving. The population was descending. I turned to Joelle, watching as the women crowded around her, muttering something indecipherable; and I felt an uncontrollable panic rise in my chest, the likes of which had only just accumulated in the night. It was here, and it was real. We got on our bikes and rode off.

We moved off the road, onto a dirt path that led to a small temple. We straightaway took to convincing ourselves that this temple was as good, if not better, than the one we’d refused to pay for. The place was empty, except for a woman eating lunch on a lone rock. The interior was pitch black, the light kept out by tightly packed bricks. I traced my fingers along the stones, unaware of their age. The room was cool, and tranquil – an oasis in an ocean of fire. Joelle went outside to take photos. I was starting to think that she might just be using me for my camera. But it honestly didn’t matter much.

~~~

It was when we arrived at the next temple that I reached down into my pocket and realized my iPhone was gone.

This is one of the worst feelings. There’s a stomach-dropping sensation, followed by an intense wave of body heat. It also happens when you see the flashing lights of a police cruiser in your rearview mirror. You’ve been going about your day, mired in your own problems; and then all of the sudden here’s a new problem you didn’t account for. Everything shifts to accommodate this recent development.

I immediately started playing it off in Joelle’s presence. It was probably at the Chill Out, or Kiran’s – no big deal. But it was a big deal. Phones, particularly iPhones, are expensive and important. If you ever come across a person recently free of one you’d think they’d been dropped in the jungle with only the clothes on their back. They’ve got this nervous itch about them. So there really was no playing it off. I think Joelle could tell that I didn’t feel like looking at temples and boulders anymore. We cycled back to the Bazaar, where it was found at neither the Chill Out nor Kiran’s. It had to be somewhere in the ruins.

I was relatively certain no one had swiped it. Joelle and I had been alone, and contrary to popular belief stealing was disgraceful. On my first trip to Pune, Will and I were standing outside McDonald’s when this crowd brushed past us, chasing a man into the street. They got him down, took off their shoes, started slapping his face. We asked a passerby what was happening. He said: The man robbed a store. Will and I watched as the mob hauled him up. They dragged him across the street. The passerby said they were taking him to the police. Will turned to me and said: “We just witnessed their criminal justice system in action.”

Joelle and I shuffled around awkwardly. We didn’t know each other well enough for her to comfort me. And we definitely didn’t know each other well enough for her to comfort me over something so trivial. I said I was going to lie down for a while, and would come across the river for dinner.

Back at Kiran’s, I considered the situation. There wasn’t much to be done. I didn’t want to downplay it, but my options were limited. I could curl up in a ball and swear off my journey, all because I’d lost one of the few things connecting me to the outside world. Or I could take it in stride, and soldier on. I didn’t have a choice. In light of my post-lassi transformation, I couldn’t afford to fold back into myself. If I did, I wouldn’t survive.

At sunset I walked to the river. Concrete steps, known as ghats, stretched infinitely from east to west. They were crumbling, abnormally large; one had to hop down in descent. The scene was empty: no one bathing or washing clothes at this late hour. All that remained were piles of forgotten trash: cans and bottles, cigarette butts, spoiled food, plastic bags, bars of soap, empty shampoo bottles, wet garments – all to be taken in by the river. To the left was a shallow patch that seemed the natural crossing. I took off my sandals and waded in, water brushing the hem of my shorts. When I reached the rocks I clawed myself onto dry land, then picked my way across to the other side. I’d have to come back this way after dark.

I was scheduled to meet Joelle at the Laughing Buddha, a cushioned amphitheater on the northern shore. Their clientele was specifically foreign. It was clear that an exodus had occurred. Hampi’s Bazaar was no longer the place to be. Everyone was young, tan, dirty, shoeless, wearing earthy shawls. Light trance music played overhead. The travelers reclined casually, sipping from beers and shakes. They were on their phones, staring down at glowing screens. I didn’t have a phone anymore, so I watched them watch theirs.

Joelle arrived with the Brit. His intentions stayed undefined, but I was starting to think he just didn’t want to be alone. His name was Will. He was twenty-six, and had left a high-paying job and a long-term girlfriend to backpack through India. It was a common narrative. We ordered beers, and soon the Pole showed up. He was revealed to be Alex. Knowing everyone’s name put me slightly more at ease. I asked them how it’d been crossing the river after drinking the Special Lassis. They said: Pretty fucking scary. Alex said he knew the girl at the table next to us; they’d met in Goa. She was Italian. He’d friended her on Facebook, but she hadn’t accepted. He stared at her longingly.

I left at 10:30PM. It was deafeningly dark, which made crossing back particularly unsafe. At the shore, the hawkers with their trashcan lids were advertising ferry rides across for Rs. 150. This seemed exorbitant, no matter how dangerous it was on foot. You’d think you couldn’t put a price on safety. But I guess in this case you could. I started into the brush, walking through mud, using my iPod to light the way, testing stones for security. At the midpoint I ran into four Indians huddled together, trying to find their way. One kept saying: “Dude, I think we should go back.” I led them to the crossing and took off my shorts, holding them overhead as I entered the water. The scared one said: “Aren’t there crocodiles in there?” Another said: “The locals haven’t seen one in fifteen years, bro.” I looked down at the current slipping between my legs. It moved in an ominous way – a way that made me think there might be something down there. It was shallow, but a baby crocodile could be fully submerged. I looked back at the Indians. They looked at me. I made it to the shore and put my pants back on.

The next day I rented a cycle and went searching for my iPhone. I knew it was a fruitless pursuit. My thought was that we’d visited some remote ruins, and perhaps it’d been left behind. I’d be riding along and spot a shiny black rock. And it’d be my iPhone.

It was strange. I felt a sense of relief. It was like I’d had a good cry, and now felt better. There was a freedom in my very shape, like my clothes had suddenly loosened. It was something you couldn’t replicate even if you tried.

I rode past tall fields of green, back to the small temple where the woman was still eating lunch. I entered, and touched that darkness once more. I went outside and sat beside the lunching woman. We stared at each other. I held a hand up to my ear, miming a phone. Then I shook my hand into the sky, as if my phone had grown wings and fluttered away. She nodded in agreement. We sat there in silence, staring out at the sun-dipped ruins. Then I got on my cycle and rode off.

I went to the Chill Out for a coffee. Two white girls were having breakfast, complaining about the heat and the trash and the food. They wanted to move across the river. The Chill Out’s owner seemed similarly indifferent about their grievances. I listened, and pictured the journey my iPhone was now taking. Picked up by someone wandering the plains, sold, sitting in a display case at one of Kamalapur’s ramshackle shops. There’s no reason to put any stake in objects. Their permanence is what inevitability gives them impermanence. Still, they’ve got something of a life about them. Even as a child I felt this way. It’d come time to throw out a toy, or a shirt, or a scrap of paper – and I couldn’t do it. I’d picture that object’s miserable new existence. I knew I couldn’t inflict that on anything, even the inanimate. The thought would nearly push me to tears. It always felt slightly shameful, wasting empathy on something that didn’t need it. But we can’t really change who we are.

I thought about this as I watched the girls stare down at their omelets in disgust. An email arrived from Joelle. She was on the other side of the river writing her thesis, but was planning on going to a Monkey Temple when she was through, if I wanted to join. I collected my belongings and headed over to meet her.

Down by the river, people were enacting their daily routines. Families washed themselves and their clothes, lathering with soap. Men swam in their underwear, bobbing up and down in the current. Women stood in pairs on the ghat, drying colorful shawls in the wind. The air was heavy with rising smoke. To the left I saw people crossing another way: hopping between two boulders, avoiding the water altogether. When I reached the rocks, however, I saw that it was by no means a small gap. It was a wide chasm, water rushing below; you really had to jump to get across. As I stood there calculating, a foreigner appeared beside me. He paused, surveying the gorge. Then he took a step back and flung himself across. He landed lightly on the other side, turning back to look at me. He was shoeless, bearded, with long shaggy hair. He seemed unbothered.

I waited with my satchel and camera, staring at the other side. I thought there was no way I’d make it. The swimming men drew nearer. Some had climbed onto the rocks, lounging in their nudity. Others clung to the crag, waiting with anticipation. It seemed like even the drying women had stopped to watch. The foreigner said: “Swing your stuff over, in case you fall.” I extended my arm and tossed the camera across. He caught it in his hands and placed it around his neck. This action also struck me as unbothered. I was in the process of removing my satchel – pulling things from my pockets, placing them inside, feeling the curious eyes of the crowd on me – when I tugged at my headphones, drawing my iPod from my pocket; and then, suddenly, in one brief instant, the cord was disconnecting, and the iPod was falling. It clattered onto the stones below, gleaming in the sun as it tumbled into the river.

Later, I would play this moment out endlessly in my mind. I would relive it, again and again, willing it to transpire differently. Sometimes I felt like maybe I could. If I wanted it badly enough I could alter the course of history. I could change what happened. I don’t go to the left; I go to the right. I don’t go meet Joelle; I remain at the Chill Out. I forget the whole damn thing; I stay in bed. It’s within my power to change it. I can feel all those trajectories of time and space. All I have to do is reach out and grab one, and I’ll enter into a different reality.

This is all incredibly stupid. We pride ourselves on a begrudging use of technology. To feel emotion over its loss is reductive, immature, disconnected from realism. We don’t want to admit that attachment. But it’s bullshit, really. It’s not about the device itself, but rather what it does for us: validation, importance, comfort, love. For me, it was the last line of defense against something I didn’t want to face. It was escapism. It was a safety net. In the end, it wasn’t about technology – it never is. It’s about the place we choose to put our problems. The place we turn to so we don’t have to turn inward. And I could feel mine slipping now, fading, this silver object, leaving me as it glittered its way down the river.

~~~

As I watched the iPod fall, I exclaimed: “Oh no!” in a high-pitched, timbreless voice. I said this in a completely unironic way. And then I was hurling myself down into the water, fully clothed. The surrounding audience followed suit, pitching themselves into the current, all of us grasping for this shiny, shimmering fish. I felt the device slip between my fingers as I fumbled awkwardly through the tide. It was so close to me – but the opportunity to catch it was fleeting, like time didn’t allow for a lack of precision. The bearded man squatted on the opposing rock, watching. It seemed imperative that I get him to leave as soon as possible. The current was strong, stronger than I’d anticipated – and now I was being carried off, realizing that the urgent goal might be to save myself. I knocked against the rocks, trying to find a substantial grip. The iPod had certainly sunk to the bottom – but the water was too murky and thick to see anything beyond the surface. I felt around with my feet, but only grazed pebbles. The locals were now performing comical swan dives, attempting retrieval. I clung to the formation, panting heavily. My main objective was to not get swept away. They popped back up, saying: “iPhone? iPhone?” I replied: “iPod! iPod!” But iPods were pretty obsolete, so they probably didn’t know what that was. They were asking: “How much? How much?” They wouldn’t let up. Finally I said, loudly, firmly: “I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about how much I just lost. I don’t want to talk about money!” They stopped asking. They went back to diving.

I knew it was gone. I just didn’t want to believe it. I swam to the other side and clawed myself up onto the rock beside the bearded man. I told him to leave. I really wanted him to leave. So he left.

One of the crowd helped me get my camera back across. I may have gone in to look some more. It seemed like the magnitude of the event was drawing people to its core. It was becoming a spectacle. The locals descended in hordes. I wanted to scream: What?! What the fuck are you looking at?! Yes, this is me! This is me falling apart! Go ahead and look! I knew they wouldn’t understand me. I didn’t understand myself. Any semblance of logic I had left said to let it go. To let it pass through me, like all things, in order to reach the other side. But I couldn’t do it. I never could. I told the diving men to hold off. I was going to get my goggles.

Back at Kiran’s I rifled through my bag – tossing out clothes, books, now-useless cords, boxes of contacts. I changed into my swimsuit and headed back to the river. I knew the iPod was dead. I wanted it anyway. I wanted to walk away with something. I reached the water and waded in. The scene appeared before me like a neoclassical painting. I didn’t give a fuck who saw. They could all watch.

The men in their underwear were lying out on the rocks. They sat up when they saw me, pointing to a shallow area where an old man stood alone. I said: Over there? They waved: Yes, yes. I joined the old man. He was hunched and shrunken, staring down at the water. I peered around to see his face. He looked legitimately blind. I asked: Are you seeing it? He didn’t reply. I thought that maybe he had special powers. Perhaps due to his blindness his other senses were heightened, and he could feel a disturbance in the river based on how the water passed over his feet. He could discern where the object rested. Either that or he had telepathic abilities, and was communing with the iPod. After a while, though, that didn’t seem to be the case. He was just an old blind man standing in a river. I swam over to where I’d jumped in and put my goggles on. I went under.

There is no way to describe what I saw down there. One can assume the contamination of the river. But it’s only once you’re in its underbelly that you can fully understand. The water is so polluted that any vision turns to pale brown, until you’re right up against it: the bottom. Down there, there are rocks. But there’s also everything else. Beer cans, candy wrappers, trash bags, string, hair, glass, toys, amulets, mucus – everything. I remember finding particular repulsion in the fabric: old, discarded clothing, collecting grime as the water passed through. I remember not conceptualizing what this river actually was: all things. People washed here. Animals swam here. Sewage collected here. The dead were buried here. It was simultaneously moving and lying still. It stood outside of barriers erected by time. I didn’t think about any of that. Down there, there was only this – and the disgust of it. I knew I’d reached my limit. I was underwater. It infiltrated my hair, ears, nose, mouth – everything. When I surfaced I said: “I can’t do this.” And I couldn’t. The iPod was going to have to be gone, because this river was death. I saw the shore, strewn with garbage, worked down into the mud; and then the horrible stench, all of our filth mixed together. It was then that I realized there are still some things that can break you, defeat you, force you into submission. I was coming upon it.

So I left the river. I knew I had to get out of there. Out of Hampi, at least. Out of India, preferably. I had the feeling that I’d die there, never make it out. Maybe not physically die, but get consumed. Something was fucking up with Hampi, and it knew it and I knew it, and I had to get out before it was too late.

First I made a plan. Then I enacted that plan. I’d leave for Goa that evening via overnight bus. I’d stay at the Beach Nest upon my return. I’d rent a scooter the following morning and ride to Margao, where I’d purchase a used iPod. I knew where it was: in the display case at Margao Electronics, down an alley just west of the Municipal Library. I’d catch an overnight bus to Pune, book a room at the Marriott, pay whatever exorbitant fee they required. I’d hole up and sort my shit out.

I stopped at the first booking office I saw, still in my swimsuit. I said: Tonight, Hampi to Goa. I went to Kiran’s and announced I was leaving. I said I’d pay him Rs. 600 for the remaining night. Then I took my jeans to a woman around the corner with a sewing machine. I said: Make these into shorts. This seemed as integral a part of the plan as anything. Finally, I stopped at the Chill Out and emailed Joelle. I said I was sorry, but I couldn’t go to the Monkey Temple. I couldn’t go anywhere. I sent the message. Then I went to lunch.

Unlike most of Hampi’s restaurants, the Mango Tree was ground level, and didn’t exist in a drugged-out haze. Patrons sat on the floor at long communal tables, equally Indian and foreign. Bright light filtered through the palm-thatched roof. The entryway was a messy consortium of everyone’s shoes. I sat there amidst the bustle of activity, letting my heart rate decrease. With my plan readied, all that remained was to see it through to fruition.

Still, something felt off. I couldn’t shake it. A souring sense that this wasn’t the move. It lived in my abdomen, clawing at me while I waited to eat. It told me, in the settling of the dust, that I couldn’t go back.

The thing they don’t tell you about travel is that it’s hard. It’s seen as one long vacation: trekking through foreign lands, tasting local delicacies, journeying inward and outward. Pictures of happy unwashed westerners perched on some outcropping, witnessing an uncapturable sunset. It is that, sometimes. But it’s also more. Recollections fail to recognize the struggles. Because it is a struggle, albeit a privileged one. Every moment you’re wrestling with something: a simple task made difficult; a lack of permanency, and dependable people; a cultural norm you’re trying to both unpack and reconcile. You’re constantly being asked the big question. You’re constantly reevaluating who you are, and what you stand for.

This felt like one such moment. I’d lost my iPhone and iPod, ridiculously, in the span of twenty-four hours. Now I was being asked that question. Who was I? How did I respond when stripped of my armor? Did I retreat back to comfortable grounds? Or did I continue on into that unusual darkness? It didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like something I’d always known. I couldn’t change this either.

I went back to Kiran’s. I lay down in bed. I listened to the sounds from the adjacent farm: the moaning cow, the woman taking down her sheets. Then I started making changes. I went to Kiran. I told him I planned to stay another two nights. I said I would pay him Rs. 700/night since I’d given him the runaround – in exchange for a phone call. I called up Joelle and told her I was coming to the Monkey Temple. On my way through the Bazaar I cancelled my bus ticket. Then I went down to the river and crossed to the right.

Joelle was waiting on the other side. Her and Will had rented scooters. She had me drive, and the three of us set off for the temple. I felt that familiar twinge of adrenaline as I gripped the handlebars, the wind whipping through our hair. The sun was coming down, setting the scenery aflame as we ripped across the countryside. Beside the road was a shoeless Israeli, waving. Will picked him up. We continued on until we reached the base of the mountain. At the top was a tiny temple, accessible via a staircase that wound through the rock’s curvature. The Israeli bought us cane juice in thanks, and then we started up.

We climbed, and the monkeys began to swarm. They were by no means cute. Their eyes were soft and innocent, but they looked slimy and manic, and had disgusting red nipples. One of them was trying to drink from a discarded Coke bottle but couldn’t get his mouth around the spout. He bashed it with his fists until the liquid spilled out, then slurped up the remains. When he was through he eyed an Indian girl with a bag of chips sticking out of her purse. He pounced, and the girl screamed: “Mommy!” Will shot some water at him and he ran off. The girl stood there sheepishly, embarrassed by her exclamation.

We moved on, passing old folks taking each step cautiously. They must’ve been climbing for hours, just to reach this little temple. Below, the landscape had transformed into a colloquium of dotted trees, expanding into the unseen distance. Pockets of smoke rose at various intervals, spinning toward the sky. The staircase opened up into a plateau of rocks, large and smooth: the mountaintop. There was the clanging of bells. A procession of devotees encircled the temple. We stepped out across the stones, passing one painted with a skull and crossbones that read: Danger! The sun was a terrific orb setting upon the plains. The world seemed so vast: roads, fields, cliffs, temples. The sky held this general fog, a haziness at dusk. I heard the faint strumming of a guitar. The Israeli hopped ahead, down through the rocks, to a precarious one on the edge, leaning over to see the disastrous plunge. Will leapt off to join him. Joelle and I sat down at the overlook. She was pulling out her GoPro, trying to get it working. I felt myself coming around on something: an epiphany, near prophetic. Moments before I’d sought to escape – to run, crippled and aimless, back from whence I came. But I hadn’t, and now here was this. A sight so beautiful I felt robbed of breath. It was like I’d been fighting against something, fighting with all my might – fighting so hard that I hadn’t thought to maybe just surrender. To simply let it happen, embrace whatever this was – lean into it, fall through the chasm and see where it led. That it might lead me up here instead of down there. I struggled to conceptualize it, whatever it was – some internal reckoning, as sun met horizon in an epic catalyst of light and dark. I was trying to explain it to Joelle, who sat beside me wrestling with her GoPro, hair fluttering in the breeze. It was no use. The whole thing echoed out into infinity. I couldn’t find the words.