On my last evening in Belur I found a drinking den, otherwise known as a large hotel with a restaurant. Two tourist couples had migrated here, drawn by the cold beer. The food was almost as bad as it was in Vishnu Residency. I joined an English couple for a beer. They, like all the other westerners I had so far met in Belur, were travelling by car, with a driver. "Oh our driver doesn't speak English, but he finds wonderful places for us, right off the beaten track" they enthused. Six Indian men were getting drunk at another table, on whiskey, laughing more and more loudly.
Next day I left Belur in a bus full of school children, travelling back to Hassan, where I intended to get the train to Mangalore. But. . be careful who you ask about the destinations of trains. The people I asked nodded. I got in the train. It stopped at Arsikere. No more trains to Mangalore. So I crossed over the bridge, dragging my luggage behind me and got on a train to Bangalore. There were more people on the platform at Bangalore than I have ever seen. It took a long time for them to leave, up a staircase that would only take about five abreast. I went straight to the reservation office, a Darwinian experience - only the fittest actually get a ticekt. But by a miracle, and a lot of pushing and shoving, I got a sleeper reservation for the same day to Hyderabad.
I shared a compartment with five young Indian women, all business management students, returning from a college trip. We shared biscuits and crisps and chatted amiably. I was kept awake a long time by the ticket inspectors, who chose to use our compartment to do their books, with the light on and talking loudly. The train arrived in Secunderabad, from where I caught a local train to Hyderabad, stopping at stations with names like James Street and Necklace Road, past a big lake with gardens.
Looking for a room in Hyderabad proved difficult. All the places I tried were full. Catching a rikshaw in Hyderabad is not a good idea. For one thing you are right in the middle of the traffic and exposed to the fumes of the traffic around you, including the buses, whose exhaust pipes are exactly level with your face. For another thing the rikshaw drivers don't speak a word of English and don't take you where you want to go, even when you give them an address and point to it written down. I eventually gave up on the rikshaw and searched for a room on foot. I found a suitably dingy room for 300 rupees, then set off to the Nizam's museum. Yet again the rikshaw driver took me somewhere else - to the Salar Jung museum this time. Fed up with arguing with rikshaw drivers, I went to see this museum, although I knew it would not really interest me. And I was right. Salar Jung, one of the latterday Nizams (feudal lords who ruled Hyderabad) seemed to have believed in quantity, rather than quality and travelled round the world for many years, buying up everything he could find.
One very disappointing room in the museum was full of Indian miniatures, half of which were at waist level, so forcing you to bend down and so poorly lit that it was difficult to see anything. Even so I do not think many of the miniatures were very good. But I did see one beautiful thing in this museum: a Japanese ivory statue of an old man wearing a piece of cloth, with a woven design that covered his head and body. His soft long beard disappeared into his robe. He was smiling serenely. The statue was small, smoothly polished and perfect. I wanted to take it home with me in my pocket. No photos were allowed in the museum.
After I left the museum I walked along the road to the bridge over the dribble that remains of the river, where I took photos of the high court, a wonderful building with many domes. Then I asked someone the way to Nampali and they pointed to a bus. No more rikshaws for me. Buses from now on.
Next day I left Belur in a bus full of school children, travelling back to Hassan, where I intended to get the train to Mangalore. But. . be careful who you ask about the destinations of trains. The people I asked nodded. I got in the train. It stopped at Arsikere. No more trains to Mangalore. So I crossed over the bridge, dragging my luggage behind me and got on a train to Bangalore. There were more people on the platform at Bangalore than I have ever seen. It took a long time for them to leave, up a staircase that would only take about five abreast. I went straight to the reservation office, a Darwinian experience - only the fittest actually get a ticekt. But by a miracle, and a lot of pushing and shoving, I got a sleeper reservation for the same day to Hyderabad.
I shared a compartment with five young Indian women, all business management students, returning from a college trip. We shared biscuits and crisps and chatted amiably. I was kept awake a long time by the ticket inspectors, who chose to use our compartment to do their books, with the light on and talking loudly. The train arrived in Secunderabad, from where I caught a local train to Hyderabad, stopping at stations with names like James Street and Necklace Road, past a big lake with gardens.
Looking for a room in Hyderabad proved difficult. All the places I tried were full. Catching a rikshaw in Hyderabad is not a good idea. For one thing you are right in the middle of the traffic and exposed to the fumes of the traffic around you, including the buses, whose exhaust pipes are exactly level with your face. For another thing the rikshaw drivers don't speak a word of English and don't take you where you want to go, even when you give them an address and point to it written down. I eventually gave up on the rikshaw and searched for a room on foot. I found a suitably dingy room for 300 rupees, then set off to the Nizam's museum. Yet again the rikshaw driver took me somewhere else - to the Salar Jung museum this time. Fed up with arguing with rikshaw drivers, I went to see this museum, although I knew it would not really interest me. And I was right. Salar Jung, one of the latterday Nizams (feudal lords who ruled Hyderabad) seemed to have believed in quantity, rather than quality and travelled round the world for many years, buying up everything he could find.
One very disappointing room in the museum was full of Indian miniatures, half of which were at waist level, so forcing you to bend down and so poorly lit that it was difficult to see anything. Even so I do not think many of the miniatures were very good. But I did see one beautiful thing in this museum: a Japanese ivory statue of an old man wearing a piece of cloth, with a woven design that covered his head and body. His soft long beard disappeared into his robe. He was smiling serenely. The statue was small, smoothly polished and perfect. I wanted to take it home with me in my pocket. No photos were allowed in the museum.
After I left the museum I walked along the road to the bridge over the dribble that remains of the river, where I took photos of the high court, a wonderful building with many domes. Then I asked someone the way to Nampali and they pointed to a bus. No more rikshaws for me. Buses from now on.
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