I had a leisurely morning chilling out, now that today's tour was canceled. My only plans were to visit Mysore market, which is supposed to be a really great sight. I went to the bus stand, and had a South Indian breakfast, a dosa. Then I caught a bus to Bannur, a small village nearby Mysore, set amongst coconut groves, sugarcane fields, and searing yellow rice paddies. It was really idyllic; overstuffed colorful oxcarts slowly made their way down the road as people bowleggedly pedaled bicycles to and from town. White egrets fluttered about the paddies, and women sat hammering granite stones into smaller pieces. After half and hour, I reached the small but busy rural town Bannur. No one seemed to notice as I trudged over to the rickshaw stand, camera in hand; maybe I actually just look Indian to them. Taxi drivers all offered to take me to Somnathpur, the only place of interest around. I opted for the bus, but the greedy rickshaw drivers kept telling the bus conductors not to let me on. I was pissed, but helpless in this booney-town, where no one spoke Hindi or English. I was out of luck and had to take a rickshaw, which was worth it because I got to have the driver stop for some good photo ops of rural life in Karnataka, plus he waited for me white I visited the temple. The ticket vendor thought I was Indian, and didn't question me. The Keshava Temple was stunning. It was built in 1268 by the Hoysala Hindu empire, and is shaped like a star, with sculptures on each face. It’s in mint condition, too, most likely because of its isolated location. The inside had beautiful rounded columns and godly statues. It was magnificent, and no one was there until the end, when tons of schoolkids came by the busloads. Being in India has done so much damage to my English. I was about to say “Lakhs of children moved to the temple”; what is wrong with me? If I didn't have close contact with people from California, I would have lost it all; I would be saying things like “Actually now is not possible, the people they have all gone from here, you just do one thing move to the bus station cum taxi stand, toh, so many people are being there”. After catching the bus back to Mysore, I had lunch at the same place as yesterday at the same time, since I saw the tour guide, who greeted me. Then I walked in the perfect 75-degree sunshine through the busy but comfortable city center to the Mysore market, for Devaraja fruit and vegetable market, which was quite the spectacle. It was an assault on all the senses, and could have been a bazaar from 300 years ago. Women sat under umbrellas, shouting fruit prices for apples, bananas, grapes, plums, papayas, watermelons, and pineapple. Men in sarongs with bags of grain on their heads ran into the tiny alleyways. Dogs, cats, cows, pigs, and people rummaged through piles of trash. Rickshaws and motorcycles grazed shoulders of shoppers; men in sarongs, women in saris, completely black burqas and western dress. The small entrance of the market led to three alleys covered with ripped tarp. One path was the household goods aisle, which had steel kitchenware, colorful sparkly bangles, brooms, and containers. A hodgepodge of whistling, shouting, and auctioning prices resonated through the air. Next was the 'fruits and vegetables' aisle, where pounds and pounds of bananas sat, while men with machetes chopped them from their stalks. Women sat peeling onions and sorting them on the ground, while men sat in chairs surrounded by pumpkins, cauliflower, apples, eggplant, cucumbers, and okra. The next aisle was the ‘religious items’ aisle which was the most fascinating. Old women in silk saris sat stringing gardinias and jasmine onto garlands to be used to hang on god statues and pictures of deceased relatives. Men sat twirling long rows of bright yellow and pink flowers and putting them in huge round piles to be collected in baskets. Punctuating the already colorful scene were the tikka powders, from bright greens to yellows to aqua blues to magenta and red, all arranged in neat piles in bowls, which was beautiful, even for a colorblind man. It smelled of rotten food, sweet aromatic sandalwood, coconut, and sweaty South Indians. The market was really a spectacle. I have really enjoyed Mysore, it is full of sights, and is really a vibrant place that tourists seem to enjoy. That being said, I can't help but look at my watch every hour, waiting for time to pass and for the days to change, closer and closer to December 20, when I leave India. I am not getting lonely or bored; on the contrary, I am actually having a blast on this trip so far. But after so long of not seeing any friends or family, it’s high time I get out of here. I went online and then ate at the same restaurant I ate at for lunch, basically because the anise is excellent there. By now, the staff there, and at my hotel know me really well. I went to the bus stand for my 9:30 bus to Kerala. So far the Karnataka State Road Transport Corporation (the public bus system) has been the best; the ticket I bought shows my name, start and end points, time of departure to the minute, seat, and platform. Plus, on regular buses in Karnataka, the conductors have little portable receipt printers showing exact route and price. It’s even more efficient than the airplane (where one of my tickets was hand written). Well, I used to think highly of Karnataka state transport, until my bus was an hour and a half late, we stopped every couple of hours to change tires, it wobbled every turn we took around the 200 foot cliffs of the Western Ghats, I didn't get my assigned seat, and we reached our destination four hours late.
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