Murdeshwar (not as sinister as it sounds)

My favorite seat on the trains of India is not in a seat at all. My favorite seat is in the doorway at the end of the car. I was perched there, snapping pictures on the ride to Gokarna, when I spotted two huge bumps on the horizon. They were backlit from the sunset, and all I could make out were the silhouettes. One looked like the gopuram of a temple, and the other seemed to be a huge statue. Though the sky was filled with warm colors, there was barely enough light left to take pictures. I snapped a few and tried to ask the women around me what it was. "Shiva, Shiva," came the answer.

I nearly flung myself off the train when it pulled in to the station. But my friends were expecting me in Gokarna, and it was nearly dark... not a great time to start exploring a new town I know nothing about. I stay on the train, but I take a picture of the station name and decide to stop on my return trip. After the light was gone, I moved to a real seat and took a closer look at the picture. I zoom in... and in... and in... it is Shiva! I can see his four arms and a giant trident! Any doubts I had about carrying this huge camera are erased by its amazing resolution. And I am resolved to go to Murdeshwar.

A few weeks later, I am headed back from Arambol, in the north of Goa. There are no trains that stop in Murdeshwar, so I have to get off at Bhatkal, one station further south. Once again I can see the giant Shiva (40m tall, I am told) from the train. In Bhatkal, I grab a bus that's a cross between a 15-passenger van and a short yellow school bus. My bag gets strapped to the roof for the first time on this trip. I am not sure how many people the bus should seat-- looks like 15 or so-- but I lose count at 30 passengers. I am in the furthest back seat, but fortunately Murdeshwar is the last stop so I have no problem getting off the bus. I ask the driver which way the temple is and he points over my shoulder. I turn to look and there is the statue looming over everything else. I realize I'll have no problem finding it: this town is small and the statue is not.

I stop by a hotel (most signs that say "hotel" in India actually signify that it is a restaurant) that serves food and also has rooms and convince them to store my bags for a few hours for a small fee. They want me to take a room at a discounted rate for the afternoon, but I persevere--adding that I'll eat lunch here, too-- and they agree. Then I am off to the temple. The town has one main road, leading down to the shore. The temple and the hill with the statue jut out into the water, with views of the beaches and wooden fishing boats. The temple is sweet and lively. I have ladoo prasad and fill my water bottle with filtered water. Lunch is also being served. There are many tourists, but they are Indians and school groups, not foreigners. A few girls come over to say hello and within minutes I am swarmed by their classmates. I try to ask their names and where they are from and tell them that I am a teacher (they are here with their teacher), but mostly it follows the standard converstational format, with them asking me "What is your good name? What is your native place?", followed by nervous giggling and them wanting to shake my hand.

After lunch, I head for the statue, but on the way I am sidetracked by a little lane that runs parallel to the beach. I follow and find a few places that rent rooms. I decide that if I wanted to escape and have a quiet place to just read and meditate and do yoga, this would be it. The only downside is what's considered acceptable swimwear, but more on that later... I walk back along the beach and discover beautiful shells at every step. There are some of the largest coquinas I have seen. Every pair is still attached in the middle, and they are laying open like angel wings. Coquinas are one of my favorites, and these are all purple, my favorite color, with white rays radiating from the center. Many of the other shells look rough and ugly on the outside, but when turned over they reveal irridescent glowing mother of pearl inside.

The statue does not seem as big from close up. I think I liked it better from the train. That bit of the mysterious unknown is lost now, but I am thankful. I stopped to see the statue but found so much more in this little town (and I haven't even told you about the friendly people I talked to, finding Shiva's favorite flowers, or the Disney-esque cave under the statue with dioramas depicting the story of how this came to be a sacred spot). Unfortunately, I am not spending the night. There are two evenings trains, about an hour apart, that I can take to my next destination. I decide to take the later train, so I can sit on the beach and sip cane juice for a while. My favorite cane juice presses are handcranked and make a delicate chiming sound as they turn. The ones on the beach are powered by a noisy generator, but the frothy green juice tastes just as fresh and sweet. While I sit, I watch the Muslim women in head-to-toe black burkas walking the water and the Hindu women wading in to the sea fully dressed in churidars and saris. I can't imagine what that must be like. Actually, I can-- my churidar pants have been in salt water three times now-- but I can't imagine what it would be like not to ever have the choice to wear a bathing suit. Then again, everyone here looks genuinely happy.

I retrieve my bags and catch a rickshaw to the train station, where the ticket seller tells me that the train has already left. India is the land of the impossible, but this can't be true: I am half an hour early. I try asking some questions to figure out what he really means. I drag out from him that it was the earlier train that left, but he insists that there isn't another one. I decide the online schedule must have been wrong. Then the story changes: there might be another train in a few hours... but only maybe. A helpful waiting passenger joins the conversation, insisting that there should be another train in just a half an hour. Again, the explanation changes. The train that should come in half an hour is the train that might come in a few hours... it's very late. They promise me I can catch a bus directly to Udupi (and I get the feeling this guy isn't going to sell me a ticket anyway), so I decide to give it a try.

The rickshaw driver takes me back the way we came and drops me at the side of the road. No bus stand or signs... so I ask around and try to figure out where to stand so the bus will stop (I've been on a few buses that have whizzed by people waving furiously). The destinations are written in Kannada (state language of Karnataka) so a kid who is waiting is giving me the yes or no signal. At some point, someone helps me figure out that I should probably just take the bus back to Bhatkal where I was that morning and change for Udupi (Bhatkal apparently has more frequent buses). I go for it: moving the right direction is preferably to waiting around on the side of the road, wondering if a bus will really come and watching the sun go down. In Bhatkal I find a bus that is supposed to be going to Udupi. I'm hungry, so I make a little sandwich of dates and bread. The bread was meant to go with the avocado I'm carrying, but that seems too messy for a crowded bus. The bus is stuffy, I'm hot and tired, and I start dozing off. I come out of my haze and try to figure out what town we are in: Kundapura. Suddenly the driver is telling me to get off the bus. So far I have found, without exception, that bus drivers make sure to tell the foreigners they should get off the bus. (Editor's note: since writing this, I have found the exception. That's a funny story.) I appreciate that, but this time I'm confused. Kundapura? Finally he manages to explain that this bus does not go to Udupi, I have to cross the street and wait for another bus... the THIRD of this adventure. So much for a direct bus. I briefly consider finding a hotel room in Kundapura and finishing my trip in the morning. I wonder if there is anything to see in Kundapura (and laugh at myself because I've found some of the bus stuff in places that weren't in the guide books... or that were and the books said "not much to see in this town"). But any travel in India seems to take up half the day, and I decide I want to wake up in Udupi. I ask a nice couple with a baby girl if I am in the right place, and they help me watch out for the correct bus. We get on the same bus and sit next to each other on the crowded seat. I feel bad that they have to sit anywhere near me because I stink after this long day of travel. I make it Udupi, only about 45 minutes later than my train was supposed to arrive and manage to find a really nice hotel on the first try. It is a bit more than I've been paying but I decide I deserve it today... and that I don't need to be wandering around town at night. It is the nicest hotel I've stayed at in India so far. And I fall asleep fully dressed with the lights on....


(I promise the posts get shorter after this.)