| Occasionally
one goes through an experience which, in its sum total offers
a useful lesson on life, one worth sharing. Two came up today;
about 60 kilometres is the limit to which the average Western
body can endure riding in an auto rickshaw. Lesson two; do
not buy your auto rickshaw driver a beer. In lesson two rickshaw
driver can also be substituted with Thai boatman. Explanations
later.
Mahabalipuram is a World Heritage Site; a collection of stone
carvings and temples dating from the 3rd to 8th Centuries.
A number of kings who ruled the region had artistic bents
and exercised them in a series of striking buildings and ornate
carvings. In this part of the world they are a prime tourist
attraction, not just for foreigners but also for the tens
of thousands of domestic tourists who, in an era of discount
airlines and widely available cars, not explore the homeland
with a strange fierceness. It may well spell doom for Mahabalipuram
if this all keeps up.
I found my driver and negotiated a price for the trip; 1200
rupees. As we went on this was, it seems, exclusive of various
charges including tolls, drinks and meals. No matter. Heading
south he was a good driver in the lose sense that the roads
are a challenge to the manhood of every idiot in India who
wants to drive. I used to find the apparent anarchy of places
like Mumbai and Kolkata bad enough, but in Chennai there are
fewer cars. This just not mean more control and reason; it
simply means high speed anarchy.
Clear of Chennai we moved down the blistering coast, pounded
by unyielding heat without a breath of wind. Little wonder
people in these parts hanker for the monsoon. What they got
several years ago was the 2002 Boxing Day Asian Tsunami. Its
impact can be seen easily with long tracts of coastline stripped
of vegetation which only now is beginning to recover. Refugee
camps remain, although they are far from full as villages
have been rebuilt. Boats sit on the beach, many with the propaganda
of an alphabet soup of global NGOs who could not bring themselves
to give aid without singing about their charity loudly. Long
live the NGO which gives something without putting up its
name and a press statement.
The town of Mahabalipuram is a much more recent addition to
the landscape. Lord, the tackiness of tourism - and this is
far from an Indian speciality - seems to know no bounds. The
sheer volume of rubbish being sold in the name of art is quite
extraordinary. I was almost inclined to buy the stone “Karma
Sutra” thing for the amusement of others. But being
made out of granite it could have easily blown my luggage
allowance. At one monument I was set upon by an “engineer
student” (once assumes that in tourist knickknack school
they tell you to come up with a line to appeal) who wanted
to sell me a marble elephant. On the way in he failed, but
was waiting as I came out. He had a price: 1200 rupees. We
walked on and he came up with a good line: “As you are
not American, I will give you this for just 800 rupees.”
Surely he has a variation on that: “as you are American
… etc etc”. As I neared the rickshaw the price
was down to 400 rupees. Moments as we were to drive away the
price was 200 rupees. What margins they work on!
The statues and temples are worth seeing, absolutely no question,
but tourists are crushing them. The Shore Temple - the icon
piece of the whole place - is being crawled over, literally,
but hundreds of tourists. I am not at all sure many of them
seriously care about it all; its just another trophy to visit
and chalk up. Rocks are falling apart and being worn out by
the ceaseless flow of people each day. At the Five Rathas
beautiful stone elephants and lions - nearly 2000 years old
- were being used as props for family photos. Children were
throwing ice cream containers on the ground and many were
simply bored, working their mobile phones instead.
India, by seeking World Heritage listing for Mahabalipuram,
owes the world better than this. The places can be seen, but
with delicacy; it is unnecessary to have everybody clambering
over the buildings.
There is a serious disconnect between the beauty of it all
and the management of the sites. Its shown up in the bizarre
plaques set up to inform visitors. They are, for the most
part, incomprehensible in English. They may well make a useful
introduction to a PhD dissertation, but they have no passion,
romance or store telling for modern visitors.
Mahabalipuram needs urgent, desperate help. India is a land
of exquisite beauties; they could simply all die the death
of 10,000 tourist cuts.
In the way of the world, we left and headed north with the
rickshaw driver going to his preferred resort for lunch. I
felt strange; I was surrounded by all these pasty white people.
Italians, Germans. I am not at all sure of the attraction
of South Indian beaches; they are unrelentingly hot and featureless.
Lunch was on me, it seems. My driver ordered himself a big
dish and a Kingfisher. I settled for just the beer and some
fruit. All seemed well and we set out for Chennai.
My driver had completely changed from the trip down. The mellow,
philosophical man had become all aggressive, loud and distinctly
risky to be with. He would yell out at people and act erratically.
When he proposed - as all rickshaw drivers do - to take me
to a handicraft shop (“just for looking, just for 10
minutes“) I made it clear he would lose his ride at
that point if he persisted. He sulked and got even more erratic.
And it was only one beer!
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