To tour the ruins or ruin the tours? Hampi, India

Hampi is a boulder strewn moonscape of ancient ruins amid palm trees and banana plantations. It is bisected by a river which over the eons carved the granite bedrock into formations which cause endless speculation by climbers like me and the dreadlocked Israeli hippies alike, who flock here to achieve enlightenment via a gigantic spliff. Hampi is fascinating in it's sprawl of ruined statues and temples which defy time itself, but for some reason it just reminds me of the song "my humps." I can't get it out of my head. "My humps, my humps! My lovely lady lumps!"

Every day tourists flock to Hampi to observe the antiquity of the turbulent world of ancient India. As western tourists, we're the definite minority. Most of the people who come here are Indian in origin, and many of them are on a sort of pilgrimage to the site either out of intellectual interest or genuine spiritual devotion. We are therefore outsiders in so many ways, and we always feel like intruders as a result.

So when it comes time to deny the inevitable offer to join a "tour" we decide instead to remain in ignorance and wander around the ruins in a world of our own-- a world full of catch phrases and remembered lines from television shows and "my humps! my hump, my hump!" which I sing loudly as we walk. We walk through a crowd of Muslim women in Burkas and my friends are momentarily embarrassed as I do the motions which I assume correspond with the lines "don't pull on my hand boy, you ain't my man boy, I'm jus' tryna dance boy, and move my humps. In the back and in the front." I'll never know whether these Muslim women were embarrassed or offended. I can't see the expressions on their faces through their all-cloaking garments designed I'm sure to protect them against my humps.

I am wondering if there are other ways to ruin the tours. Should I go out of my way, or just be myself? Is my mere presence there enough? I feel like I am offending people who journey miles and miles to seek out the 500 year old statue of Ganesha and throw themselves at its feet in supplication, misery and joy all mixed confusedly together like vegetable curry. I non-chalantly take a picture and move on to the next boulder problem.

Bouldering is sort of a spiritual art, I tell myself. One can experience bliss and disappointment in the constant pursuit of perfection. This one doesn't have a good landing. It's too high-ball. Too slopey. Too much over-hang here. Certainly it involves a long journey and confronting new and unframilair things, like any other spiritual quest. I have come all the way to India for this Boulder. What makes the Indians so different from me? My musings are interrupted by Ritik's query.

"Should we go over here to the other temples whose names we can't pronounce?"

"They do have more letters."

Yentrodharaka Anjaneya temple. Yent- ro- dar- ah -ka. An -jah- ney? Whatever. I still feel bad about the women in Burkas and how I offended them. I pretty sure they don't understand my humps. I'm not even sure I understand them. So maybe they didn't know to be offended.

I lieback a small flake and lunge up to the highest hold and hit it. I try to find the right foot-holds before my body creeps earth-ward to the dirt, but my foot slips off the tiny crystal of granite and I fall. Try again. This time focus and don't be thinking about the woman in the Burka or what you're going to do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk.