Lovely Laknavaram

I joined an adventure club, as I’m want to do.

One of my first memories of Madison, a pair of Hoofers outing. In Heves, in the absence of an adventure club, I formed my own. (Sadly, the Green Club never adventured, as the kids didn’t have sleeping bags.) And here on the Deccan Plateau? The Great Hyderabad Adventure Club.

I felt out the club in January with a trip to the deer park with the smiling orphans. A little heavy on the software engineers – as any group of more than a handful of people in this city must necessarily be – but full of friendly, interesting young professionals.


Until I get some experience under my belt, the idea of adventuring off the beaten path (at least with the ability to return to work on time come Monday morning) is a bit daunting. The train system a bit intimidating, buses even more so. So I figured the club’s a great way to hit the ground running.

First trip? Laknavaram.

On a map it’s not the far, maybe 200 km, just a little bit past Warangal, the nearest “big city” outside of Hyderabad, the epicenter of the Telangana agitations. The road between here and there is “under construction.” Sometimes a two-lane divided highway for a kilometer or two, then a one-lane dirt detour around an irrigation pipe or whatnot.

It’s slow going. But the most noticeable thing about Indian roads is the stunning variety of speeds on each an every road. Fastest: huge trucks barreling over/around/through any obstacles. 2nd place: huge buses, much the same, except they occasional slow – not stop – to let passengers hop on or off. 3rd. Personal cars. 4th. Motorcycles. 5th. Mopeds. 6th. Autorickshaws. 7th. Bicycles. 8th. Stray dogs. 9th. Pedestrians. Last place? Cows. The totality means lots of passing, lots of swerving, lots of jerky braking and accelerating.

The moment we left Hyderabad, the countryside was pure ride paddy and cotton fields, speckled with huge monoliths every once in a while on the horizon. Beautiful, amazing countryside, dotted with villages and locals hard at work in the fields. Five hours later, our private mini bus reached our destination and the 15 of us hopped out. A 12th-century reservoir that’s on the cusp of being a “tourist attraction.” That means the government has built a suspension bridge to an island and locals come picnic here.

It should come as no surprise when I interrupt the story here for a slight jeremiad: India is dirty. It’s a combination of things, of course, but here’s a beautiful spot that’s been blatantly trashed. A whole island covered in shit. Not just a little. A lot. Litter everywhere. Disgusting. Broken glass shards everywhere. Dangerous. Of course there’s no government or private entity that can maintain trash facilities way out in the boonies, an I’m not suggesting it would be the right investment in a rural area where there are massive public health, safety and education needs. More disappointing, I suppose, is the attitude of each and every visitor who comes to a nice little spot in the woods...and feels little to no remorse about adding a popsicle wrapper, a paper plate, a water bottle and a right shoe to the mess. (my new friends, thankfully, were largely exceptions to the rule.)

But once you gloss over the details, the spot was a nice reprieve from the hustle and bustle of Hyderabad. I wouldn’t go so far as to call the water inviting, but we dove in regardless. Most of us, strangely enough, in life jackets. It’s a bit strange coming from Wisconsin, but the majority of the software engineers couldn’t swim. So in the shallows I taught rhythmic breathing. And floating... Also taught on the trip? How to drive an automatic car. How to hold a paddle. How to steer a boat. Things I learned on the other hand? How to cook darn good curry over a fire. How to amuse a troop of monkeys with leftover rice.

We didn’t have the spot to ourselves, though, a slew of locals on picnics came and went both Saturday and Sunday. They don’t see many farengi – foreigners – out in these parts; I created a bit of a stir. Of course I bring most of it upon myself, charming school children on weekend picnics with a few sentences in Telugu, then having to pry myself out of 20 handshakes five minutes later. I tried teaching one school’s worth of kids the merits of picking glass shards out of the rocks, but the lesson may or may not have taken root.

This is the end of the story. It was a nice two-day trip into authentic Andhra Pradesh. It’s just not a good tale, sorry. Hope the pictures suffice.