Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand
RIDING INTO A PANDEMIC
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156 INDIA (3) - Part 2
509 Kilometres - 9 Days
18 February – 24 March 2020
MAP
PHOTOS
PHOTOS
FLIP-BOOK
VOICEOVER
Prelude – A Brief Interlude Before Things Become
Complicated
India, I have
found, is not a place one visits so much as one submits to—rather like
turbulence, or a particularly determined relative. It has a way of rearranging
plans, expectations, and occasionally one’s digestive system with an efficiency
that suggests long practice.
I had not intended
to linger long this time. The plan was straightforward, even commendably so:
meet my sister for a holiday, enjoy a leisurely start along Kerala’s
backwaters, and then continue north for a month of cycling with Caron. It was
the sort of plan that looks entirely sensible when written down and, in
retrospect, deeply optimistic.
As it turned out,
India had ideas of its own.
There were
festivals that covered one in colour whether one wished it or not, and a level
of hospitality that made leaving feel faintly ungrateful. It was all
wonderfully chaotic in that distinctly Indian way—busy, generous, occasionally baffling, and
always just beyond complete comprehension.
At the time, there were also occasional
murmurs of something else—something distant and faintly abstract, like weather
on the far horizon. It seemed inconsequential then.
It is, in hindsight, impressive how wrong one
can be.
Thailand
Amanda, my sister, arrived in Thailand
fashionably late—fashionably, that is, if one subscribes to the view that
several days is merely a suggestion. We spent a few lazy days in Pattaya before
flying to Kochi, India, lured by the irresistible promise of a night on a
houseboat.
Kochi,
India
Finding a houseboat in Kochi was rather like
trying to find sand at the beach—there were simply too many options, all
enthusiastically waving for attention. We chose a private one with a single
bedroom, which sounded delightfully exclusive and, more importantly, meant we
didn’t have to share our floating existence with strangers of questionable
conversational stamina. Soon enough, we were chugging gently along Kerala’s
famous backwaters, reclining on the deck with beers in hand and the distinct
feeling that we had made a series of excellent decisions.
The package included lunch, dinner, and
breakfast, which we approached with admirable dedication. Our only
disappointment came when, after a day of this idyllic drifting, the boat
anchored for the night… in precisely the same spot we had boarded. This felt
faintly like booking a round-the-world ticket and discovering you’d been
circling the car park.
The next morning, after breakfast and what
might generously be called a “cruise,” we disembarked and headed for Goa, where
we devoted ourselves to a rigorous schedule of eating, drinking, swimming, and
laughing to the point of mild respiratory distress. Alas, as holidays insist on
doing, Amanda’s came to an end, and she departed for South Africa, leaving
behind a lingering sense of fun.
Return
to Alibag
I returned to Alibag to collect my bicycle
from friends, intending to stay one night and instead lingering for three,
which is how India works: you arrive with a plan and leave with entirely
different arrangements and several extra meals. The delay was due to Holi, a
festival that is less an event and more a full-scale ambush of colour.
It begins with a bonfire on the night of the
full moon, symbolising the triumph of good over evil—an admirable concept,
though one suspects the evil rarely sees it coming. The following day descends
into gleeful chaos as everyone hurls brightly coloured powder at everyone else,
turning the world into what looks like the aftermath of an enthusiastic paint
factory explosion. It is joyous, slightly bewildering, and entirely impossible
to observe from a safe distance. Resistance, as they say, is futile—and also
rather dull.
During this time, Anil and Janhavi took it upon
themselves to ensure that I never experienced hunger again. I was also whisked
around town on the back of a Royal Enfield motorbike, which is less a mode of
transport and more a national institution with an engine. It’s often said that
in India you arrive as a visitor and leave as family, which is lovely—although
one does wonder if family members elsewhere are fed quite this relentlessly.
Eventually, after food, colour, and
hospitality had combined to make departure both difficult and necessary, I set off
north toward Delhi, where I was due to meet Caron for what promised to be a
month-long cycling adventure.
Back on the Bike - Heading North
After nearly a
month off the bike, I set out from Alibag feeling heroic, invigorated, and only
slightly concerned that I might immediately regret all my life choices. Anil
had recommended a civilised escape route via the Rewas ferry—civilised being a
relative term, but anything that avoids Mumbai traffic is, by definition,
enlightened.
The ferry deposited
me safely on the other side, and I spent the remainder of the day dodging busy
roads with the sort of determination normally reserved for avoiding tax audits.
Unfortunately, at one point, I hit a pothole of such impressive proportions
that it seemed less a flaw in the road and more a deliberate geological
feature. The impact was immediate and decisive: the tyre flattened with a sigh,
as if even it had given up.
Having repaired the
puncture and cycled a respectable 100 kilometres, I arrived in Kalyan only to
discover that finding accommodation was unexpectedly complicated. Budget hotels
appeared to operate on a “no foreigners, no fuss” basis, which left me
shuffling from one doorstep to another until a pricier establishment finally
agreed to take me in—presumably on the understanding that I would leave as soon
as possible.
Kalyan
to Kasa (86 km)
The following day,
I faced the great philosophical question of touring: inland or coast? I chose
the coast, largely because it sounded more interesting and marginally less
likely to involve being flattened by a lorry.
The first stretch
was gloriously rural—so rural, in fact, that my presence appeared to cause mild
astonishment. Entire villages seemed to pause mid-activity to stare at what
must have looked like a travelling curiosity: a foreign woman wobbling along on
a bicycle with questionable confidence. It was one of those moments that gently
reminds you how vast and varied the world is—and how peculiar you must look
within it.
Not helping matters
was my rear wheel, which had developed a wobble following the previous day’s
pothole incident. There is a particular kind of anxiety reserved for cycling
long distances on equipment that makes a faint but persistent suggestion that
it may soon part ways with you.
Then, around midday,
came the news that rather overshadowed everything else: Caron’s message
informing me that all tourist visas to India had been cancelled due to the
Coronavirus. Just like that, our carefully anticipated cycling adventure
evaporated. It was devastating—especially for her, as she was already packed
and ready to go—and it cast an odd, uncertain tone over everything that
followed.
I stopped early
that day, partly to process the news and partly because my accommodation
happened to be directly above a 24-hour roadside restaurant. This seemed
charming at first and less so at 2 a.m., when the combination of clattering
pots, lively conversation, and general enthusiasm for late-night dining
suggested that sleep might be optional.
Kasa
to Daman (65 km) - Onto Daman
The next day
brought the dreaded highway—a long, noisy stretch that seems specifically
designed to make one question the wisdom of travelling by bicycle. At Vapi, a
bicycle shop examined my wheel and, after some deliberation, declared that the
tyre was the culprit rather than the rim, which was reassuring in the same way
that being told you have a minor problem instead of a catastrophic one is
reassuring.
I continued to
Daman, a former Portuguese enclave that retains just enough faded colonial
charm to make you feel momentarily transported—until you notice the black beach
and remember you are not, in fact, in Portugal.
I lingered in Daman
for a day, partly to wrestle with an uncooperative internet connection and
partly because it grew on me in that scruffy, unassuming way that places
sometimes do. History here includes tales of Portuguese explorers being blown
ashore in violent storms, which I found mildly unsettling, particularly as I
was already contending with headwinds and an increasingly stubborn bicycle.
Daman
to Renbasera Guest House (25 km) - Then came Delhi belly.
It arrived quietly
in the night and made its presence known with considerable authority the
following morning. Unfortunately, the hotel had other plans for me—namely, that
I leave immediately due to renovations. There is nothing quite like being
forcibly evicted while simultaneously unwell to sharpen one’s sense of
adventure. (Later, it dawned on me that their actions were most likely due to
the COVID-19 pandemic, which I was only vaguely aware of)
And so, weak,
queasy, and deeply regretting several recent meals, I set off again. What
followed was not so much cycling as a grim negotiation with gravity and
digestion. Stopping periodically to vomit under the curious gaze of villagers
does little for one’s dignity and even less for one’s image as a capable
long-distance cyclist.
Eventually,
salvation appeared in the form of a roadside guesthouse, where I collapsed
gratefully. Attempts at eating failed spectacularly, but the kindness of the
staff—who offered fruit with a quiet concern—was a reminder that hospitality
persists even when one is a thoroughly unimpressive guest.
Surat, where the reality
of the COVID Pandemic set in (100 km)
Miraculously, the following
morning, I felt almost human again and set off toward Surat. The roads were
hot, dusty, and busy, and the temperature climbed to a toasty 38°C, which felt
unnecessarily ambitious for early spring. Hydration became a full-time
occupation, though one that never quite kept up with demand.
By now, the
Coronavirus had begun to alter the rhythm of travel. People kept their
distance, which I found both understandable and slightly disconcerting, as
though I had inadvertently become the subject of a very personal social
experiment. I bought a face mask, partly for protection and partly because it
made me feel less like a walking cautionary tale.
Accommodation,
meanwhile, became increasingly erratic. Hotels claimed to be full in a way that
suggested they might not, in fact, be full at all, but simply reluctant. The
pandemic had turned me from a mildly interesting traveller into a potential
biohazard, which was a new and not entirely flattering development.
Vadodara,
the End of the Road (130 km)
By the time I
reached Vadodara, the situation had taken on a distinctly surreal quality.
Attractions were closing, festivals were cancelled, and rumours of lockdowns
circulated with increasing urgency. The joy of cycle touring—normally found in
spontaneity and freedom—had been replaced by a constant low-grade uncertainty.
Faced with this, I
did what any sensible person would do: I made a plan to leave.
The options were
straightforward—return to Goa and wait things out, or retreat to Thailand,
where accommodation, at least, was free. Whatever the decision, I had to return
to Mumbai to continue my journey, so I booked a train back.
This required
sending the bicycle ahead separately, which felt rather like dispatching a
loyal companion into the unknown while I followed, burdened with an improbable
number of bags. Public transport, I have long maintained, is far more
complicated than simply cycling, though admittedly it involves less sweating.
The journey to
Mumbai unfolded amid a quiet suspicion. Fellow passengers gave me a wide berth,
which would have been peaceful under normal circumstances but now carried a
definite air of caution. At the station, chai in hand, I watched the ebb and
flow of life and tried to decide what came next.
Mumbai
Mumbai itself was unrecognisable.
The normally heaving streets of Colaba were eerily empty, shops shuttered, and
people moved quickly, masked and purposeful, as though the city had
collectively agreed to hold its breath.
Hotels closed just
as I arrived, bike shops shut their doors at the sight of me, and at one point,
I was firmly ushered away simply for attempting to stand in a foyer. It was
less a welcoming experience and more an elaborate game of “keep moving.”
Eventually, I found
a place willing to take me in, though I strongly suspected I was their only
guest. The city felt like a film set after the extras had gone home—strangely
still, slightly unsettling, and entirely surreal.
Financial prudence
won over beachside temptation, and I reluctantly decided to return to Thailand
for a month (or so I thought)
At the airport, I
watched the departure boards with the kind of nervous intensity usually
reserved for exam results. Flights were being cancelled left and right, and it
felt like a minor miracle when mine was finally called at the ungodly hour of 4
a.m., and we were allowed to proceed.
Back in Thailand,
where 1 month became 2 years
When we touched
down in Bangkok, the relief was immense. It felt as though I had slipped out of
India just ahead of something enormous and unstoppable—which, as it turned out,
was precisely the case. The following day, Thailand closed all borders and
incoming flights.
My one-month
retreat became a 2-year saga, and it was not until 8 February 2022 that I
finally flew out of Thailand to continue my journey on a different continent.
Epilogue – The Great Unravelling
Travel, at its
best, has a reassuring rhythm—you move, explore, and carry on, trusting the
world will remain open.
And then,
occasionally, it doesn’t.
At first, the
changes were small: hesitant glances, closed doors, plans that felt
increasingly provisional. But by the time I reached Vadodara, the shift was
unmistakable. The city had quietened, movement had tightened, and the easy
freedom of travel had begun to slip away.
Leaving felt less
like a decision and more like catching the last train out.
In Thailand, the
relief was immediate but uneasy. Within days, borders closed, flights stopped,
and the simple act of going somewhere quietly disappeared.
