by the river, through villages and fields, to the monkey temple about an hour's walk away. Hampi is the birthplace of the Hindu god Hanuman (the monkey god) and his temple is located at the top of this huge cliff. It's a tiny white building waiting at the end of a long, zig-zaggy staircase cut into the mountainside.
Climbing this staircase was like suddenly finding myself in advanced aerobics, when I'd meant to sign up for the beginners' class. I huffed and puffed and sweated my way to the top, pausing often under the guise of admiring the amazing view. It feels like you can see every temple, banana field and mountain in Karnataka from these stairs. It's an incredible vantage point.
All along the stairs, monkeys watched my progress while chattering and pointing and scrutinizing my bag for possible bananas. (The already challenging steps of the monkey temple are made even more so by the presence of banana peels everywhere. It's slapstick comedy waiting to happen.)
Once at the top, I went inside the tiny cave-like temple and did my best to look like I belonged. I knelt before the altar, covered with marigolds, incense sticks, bowls of sugar, fruit, and prayers scribbled out on scraps of paper. I dropped a few rupees on the altar and mumbled a general prayer of thanksgiving - not least of all for making it to the top of the stairs without passing out.
Then a monk came over and gestured to a tiny brass bowl at our feet. I shrugged, not understanding, and he picked it up and painted a red line down my forehead. I felt included, but still clueless.
When I re-emerged, the sunlight was almost blinding. I blinked to clear my vision, and saw a monkey run past me with a shoe in his mouth.
Everyone has to leave their shoes outside the temple, so there are a pile of them at the top of the steps. This monkey had ignored all the cheap flip-flops and made off with a quality man's loafer. He'd climbed a small hill and was just about to disappear over the cliff face when I shouted at him to stop.
Having lost three pairs of shoes in India already, I know what a drag it is to be without footwear in this country. The owner of the loafers was nowhere in sight, but I felt an obligation to help. The monkey turned and looked at me, chewing meditatively on the heel. Deciding that, as a foreigner and non-Hindu, I had absolutely no authority, he dismissed me and scurried further away.
I heard a shout behind me. An Indian man ran towards me, telling me not to worry, he would help save my shoe. He walked as close as possible to the monkey and softly said, "Give shoe, baba."
The monkey seemed to consider this. The man held out his water bottle. "Take water, give shoe."
The monkey took the shoe out of his mouth and stared at the bottle. "Come on," the man coaxed, "give shoe."
The monkey dropped the shoe and backed away.
I applauded and the man gallantly handed the shoe to me. Then I had to explain, rather anti-climactically, that the shoe wasn't even mine. We both laughed and then dropped it back in the general shoe pile outside the temple door, where the same monkey was already chewing on someone else's sneakers.
We tried to shoo him away (no pun intended) but ultimately had to concede that you can't save everyone's shoes. Sometimes not even your own. This is one of the many lessons of India.
Then the man offered me a ride back to the guesthouse on his tiny motorbike, with his girlfriend. (That's three adults on a vehicle about the size of my moped, with no helmets.) I refused repeatedly, but they insisted. They even followed me down the road on their bike, calling for me to get on. So I climbed onto the very back, hanging onto the tiny metal bar you'd bungee your backpack to, and rode home in true Hampi style.
Shukriya, Hanuman!
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