Southbound Through the Subcontinent
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INDIA (2)
2,570 Kilometres - 72 Days
7 November 2015 – 22 January 2016
Prelude
India
has a way of greeting you long before you arrive. It begins with a faint memory
of incense, a distant honk, and the suspicion that somewhere, somehow, a cow is
about to wander into your path. By the time you actually set foot—or wheel—on
the subcontinent, you’re already braced for the improbable, the bewildering,
and the oddly heartwarming.
This
chapter traces 2,570 kilometres over 72 days, a southbound drift through a
country that refuses to be summarised. It is a tale of ferries that lean,
temples that tower, roadworks that multiply, and people who wobble their heads
with such enthusiasm you begin to wonder if it’s a national sport. It is also a
story of masala chai, coastal sunsets, broken bicycle parts, and the occasional
existential crisis brought on by traffic.
Mostly,
though, it is about motion—forward, sideways, uphill, downhill—and the strange
clarity that comes from watching India unfold at 15 kilometres per hour.
Tamu
to Moreh: Welcome to India
I’d
been told the Indian immigration office opened at midday, which in India can
mean anything from “midday” to “possibly next Tuesday,” so I didn’t rush.
Around one o’clock I pedalled to the border, crossed a river, and entered
Manipur — a place that looked so unlike the rest of India that I briefly
wondered whether I’d accidentally cycled into a different continent.
The
immigration office was allegedly a kilometre further on, but the only thing
present was an empty building and a few goats who appeared to be in charge.
Officials waved me toward the police station instead, which sat atop a stony
hill accessible only by a dirt track designed, I suspect, by someone who hated
cyclists. I wrestled the bike up like a Victorian explorer hauling a trunk of
silverware.
Formalities
done, I rolled into Moreh and checked into Sangai Lodge — a basic guesthouse
famous among cyclists for being the only option and therefore universally
beloved. The owner, a cheerful man with encyclopaedic knowledge of local chaos,
informed me that Manipur was known for mountains, drug trafficking, and
guerrilla armies. He said this casually, as though listing amenities: “Hot
water, free Wi‑Fi, occasional insurgency.”
Moreh
itself was a dusty carnival of noise. Buses honked, tuk‑tuks zigzagged, men in
lungis pushed hand‑drawn carts with the determination of Olympians. It was the
sort of place that could stun even the most seasoned traveller. Yet, in true
Indian fashion, the essentials — currency exchange and SIM card — were sorted
in minutes. India may be chaotic, but it is efficiently chaotic.
My
plan was simple: get to Delhi as fast as possible, then bike to Pushkar for the
Camel Fair. I dislike public transport, but camels trump principles.
Moreh
to Imphal: The Taxi That Eventually Arrived
India
is impossible to summarise. It’s too big, too loud, too contradictory. Manipur,
however, is its own universe. The people have striking Mongolian features, and
the tribal villages feel like stepping into a National Geographic spread.
My
host arranged a “taxi” to Imphal — a word that in Manipur means “vehicle that
will appear at some point.” It finally arrived around midday, and off we went.
Within minutes I regretted not cycling the state. Every bend revealed something
fascinating: shawls, woven baskets, mountain villages clinging to slopes like
stubborn barnacles.
But
I had made my choice: camels over mountains.
India
is dusty, busy, spiritual, and occasionally terrifying. The driving alone is
enough to make one reconsider the value of life. So arriving in Imphal
unscathed felt like a small miracle.
Imphal
to Guwahati: The Bus Ride That Time Forgot
The
bus to Guwahati was rumoured to leave at 10:30. It left at 11:30, which in
India counts as “ahead of schedule.” The road over the mountains was so rough
I’m convinced it was designed to test the structural integrity of buses and
passengers alike. Winter was a blessing — the bus was ancient and air‑conditioned
only by holes in the floor.
The
driver stopped only when someone needed to pee or when a tyre exploded, which
happened twice. Signboards announced a 20 km/h speed limit, and the bus took
this as a strict maximum.
The
mountain people were astonishingly tribal — red shawls, woven baskets strapped
to foreheads, rosy cheeks, round faces. I kept wanting to shout, “Stop the bus!
I want to cycle this!” But I had a festival to go to.
I
must have dozed off because I woke in Guwahati, stumbled off the bus, and rode
into the city like a dazed animal. After a shower, I walked to the train
station to buy a ticket to Delhi. The bike and panniers required forms in
triplicate — a colonial relic, no doubt — and cost more than my seat. Still,
India remains the world’s best bargain.
Back
outside, India unfolded in all its glory: milk tea bubbling on street corners,
kids playing cricket everywhere, homeless men smiling warmly, and a barber
giving haircuts beside a cricket pitch. I ate roti drenched in curry sauce and
felt utterly at home.
The
train was due at 6:15 the next morning. The reception promised to wake me at
5:00. Promises in India are flexible, but miraculously, my phone rang on time.
Guwahati
to Delhi: Like a Rolling Museum Exhibit
I
hurried to the station, checked on the bike (already at Platform 7, astonishing),
and waited through delays until the train arrived. It looked as though it had
last been cleaned in 1953 and had been accumulating dust ever since.
Being
the only foreigner made me a novelty. People gathered to stare at me as though
I were a rare zoo exhibit. I tried editing photos, but soon had an audience so
close I could smell their breakfast. Privacy is a cultural concept, and mine
evaporated instantly.
Vendors
hopped on at stations selling tea, samosas, chickpeas, water. Passengers threw
their cups and plates out the window — not paper plates, but newspaper. I
couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I kept mine; I guessed I was earning a
reputation as either environmentally conscious or deeply strange; I surmised
the latter.
Lunch
was chickpeas, eaten under intense observation. My fellow travellers fashioned
a scoop from a newspaper so the foreigner could eat properly. They guarded my
belongings, fussed over me, and whispered “foreigner, foreigner” whenever I
moved.
I
had assumed bedding would be provided. It wasn’t. Thankfully, a kind man lent
me a blanket, saving me from a night of shivering and self‑loathing.
Delhi:
The Parcel Office Odyssey
The
train wheezed into Delhi around 8 p m, and as lovely as my fellow passengers
had been, I was thrilled to escape the constant staring. Unfortunately, my bike
and bags had vanished into the bureaucratic ether. I headed to the parcel
office — an adventure worthy of its own Lonely Planet chapter.
Navigating
the station in the dark meant wading through muddy puddles, hopping rail
tracks, sidestepping stray dogs, and weaving past towers of goods stacked with
the optimism of Jenga champions. The bicycle was not there. I decided Delhi
would be easier to face after sleep and went off in search of accommodation.
Delhi
at night is an over‑commercialised madhouse, especially during Diwali. Main
Bazaar Road was a river of neon light and humanity. At 9 or 10 p.m., it was as
busy as rush hour in any megacity — except here the traffic consisted of
bicycle rickshaws, tuk‑tuks, pedestrians, and cows who clearly believed they
owned the place.
I
drifted past curry vendors, beggars, and scrawny children who asked for
handouts with the efficiency of seasoned professionals. Eventually, I found a
bed at Namaskar Hotel — and I’m fairly sure it was the same one I stayed in
back in 2008, still clinging to life with admirable determination.
Delhi:
Flu, Fog, and Garmin
I
woke with a sore throat and blocked nose, which was hardly surprising after the
train. Vitamin C and my bike were both easy to find, but cycling even a short
distance reminded me how trying India’s roads could be.
Feeling
dreadful, I spent the next day in bed, nursing a thick head and aching body. I
couldn’t afford to get properly sick — the Pushkar Camel Fair clock was
ticking. Delhi’s air quality was so poor I hadn’t seen the sun in days, though
the smog did make for atmospheric photos.
Even
walking to the chemist was an experience. India’s open garbage system attracts
dogs, monkeys, pigs, rats, and cows, all scavenging for survival. It’s
especially tragic for cows, whose complex digestive systems cannot expel
plastic bags. Over time, the plastic hardens inside them, eventually killing
them. Add to this children performing trapeze acts while balancing clay pots on
their heads, and you have quintessential Delhi.
The
flu tablets didn’t help, so I resorted to the corner herbalist. I stayed close
to the hotel, venturing out only for food and water. The herbs worked — or
perhaps nature simply gave up tormenting me.
My
Garmin GPS refused to load the free Indian map from OpenStreetMap, so I bought
a Garmin map at a hefty price. It didn’t load either. My patience evaporated. I
elbowed through crowds, avoiding cow dung, dog shit, and human excrement, and
marched to Garmin’s Delhi office. Staff tried valiantly to load the map, but
the process was glacial. We agreed to leave it overnight.
Back
at the hotel, I met Darryl, a fellow cyclist with a good sense of humour, and
we shared a few beers — medicinal, of course.
Delhi
to Pushkar: Holy Lakes and Holy Noise
On
17 November, I left Delhi by car for Pushkar, stopping first at Garmin. They
still couldn’t load the map. I hoped this would be my last public transport in
India — I was itching to get moving under my own steam.
Pushkar,
when I finally reached it, was extraordinary. As a holy town, it is virtually a
must for Hindus to visit at least once. No beer or meat is sold, though I’m
sure it can be found if one whispers the right password. A sacred lake sits at
the centre, said to have appeared when Brahma dropped a lotus flower. With more
than 50 bathing ghats and hundreds of temples, the air vibrates with constant
drumming and chanting. Sleeping in is impossible — gongs begin at five a m —
but the morning light is worth it.
The
famous camel fair is where Rajasthan’s people show, auction, and buy camels and
horses. The outskirts of Pushkar were a sea of camels, traders living in
makeshift tents, and children begging for photos. Men squatted on their
haunches, bargaining with the seriousness of diplomats. The horsemanship was
impressive — the desert horses have inward‑curving ears practically touching at
the tips.
Photographing
anything was a challenge. The fair was far larger than expected, swarming with
people, camels, and horses. Professional photographers prowled everywhere, so I
slunk around the back to avoid being trampled by ambition.
Vendors
lined the route selling horse and camel paraphernalia, bedrolls, barbers’
services — everything a trader might need. Oddly, everything seemed aimed at
men, despite many women being present. Rajasthan women remained second‑class
citizens, collecting dung and making chapatis. Only about 50% of Rajasthan’s
women are educated, and the state has India’s largest gender gap.
Aside
from traders and photographers, hordes of travellers filled the town.
I
soon discovered the camel fair was merely a sideshow. The main event was Kartik
Purnima, when pilgrims bathe in the sacred lake. The town became a noisy,
crowded maze of tourists, pilgrims, and beggars. I loved the madness. There
were limbless beggars with bowls, snake charmers, and even five‑legged calves.
It seemed all one needed to earn money was a bowl and a spot outside a temple.
I briefly considered getting one.
Pushkar
to Beawar: A Day of Almost Being Robbed
As
fascinating as Pushkar was, my feet were itchy. Leaving town was tricky — I
tried avoiding the main road to Ajmer and ended up on a sandy track that forced
me to backtrack. Eventually, I must have cycled in a giant circle, turning a short
day into a long one. I lost my odometer but guessed the distance at around 90
km.
I
was nearly robbed three times, which made me realise Rajasthan wasn’t as safe
as expected. Avoiding the highway had been a mistake.
First,
three men on a motorbike waited on a lonely stretch. I sensed trouble. One
grabbed my handlebars, then snatched my phone from its holder — but dropped it
and sped off.
Second,
a middle‑aged man grabbed my bike. He had an axe, which discouraged debate. He
pointed at the front wheel. I wasn’t sure whether he wanted the wheel, the
tube, or the entire bike. Then he gestured for a photo. I didn’t know whether
he wanted me to take one or wanted my camera, so I told him I had none. He let
go, and I pedalled away at record speed.
Third,
a woman appeared from nowhere and began hitting me on the back. Perhaps she was
mentally ill or wanted something, but I didn’t stop.
After
that, I stuck close to a bicycle vendor heading toward Beawar. I'm convinced he
saw what happened and slowed down so I could follow him as he chased away
several persistent followers. I owe that man a great deal.
Reaching
Beawar was a relief. Accommodation was tricky — rooms were full due to
weddings, or perhaps foreigners weren’t welcome. Eventually, Hotel Shree
offered a room and a door I could close behind me. What a day!
Beawar
to Pali - Roadside Dhabas (120 km)
If
there’s one thing India teaches you, it’s that plans are merely decorative
items—nice to have, entirely useless. I abandoned the idea of following minor
roads and took the toll road, which, astonishingly, allowed bicycles. Even more
astonishingly, it was quiet. Quiet for India, meaning only mildly chaotic
rather than apocalyptic.
The
landscape was a sort of minimalist desert installation: barren earth, barren
mountains, and the occasional plastic bag drifting by like a melancholy ghost
of consumerism. I pedalled through it all, past dhabas that looked as
though they’d been assembled from leftover mud and optimism. Inside, men
lounged on cots, eating the same two dishes served everywhere in Rajasthan.
Upon my arrival, they stopped chewing and stared at me with the intensity of
people watching a live bomb defusal. Drinking chai under such scrutiny is not
for the faint‑hearted.
Water
shelters appeared regularly—clay urns under canopies, keeping water
miraculously cool. Each had a communal mug dangling from a string, which locals
used without touching their lips. I never mastered this skill and mostly just
splashed myself.
Pali
to Sumerpur - The Night a Parade Shook the Building (85 km)-
I
woke up with the enthusiasm of a damp sock but forced myself onto the road. Rajasthan
delivered its usual: dust, dryness, goats, and women in saris so colourful they
could be seen from space. People called me over for chai, but the memory of a
recent unpleasant encounter lingered, so I waved politely and kept going.
Sumerpur
offered lodging right on the main road, which felt like a gift. Unfortunately,
around midnight, the street erupted in a festival so loud it could have doubled
as seismic testing. A parade passed by with music that shook the building, the
furniture, and possibly my internal organs.
Sumerpur
to Sirohi (45 km)
I
left town among camel carts and cows that looked like they’d given up on life.
A formidable mountain loomed ahead, and I promptly decided I had no mental
fortitude whatsoever. I stopped in Sirohi and called it a day. Sometimes
heroism is knowing when to quit.
Sirohi
to Abu Road - Faith in Humanity Rebooted (73 km)
The
allegedly terrifying mountain turned out to be a complete fraud — all bark, no
bite. Instead of the dramatic climb I’d mentally prepared for (complete with
heroic music and maybe a tear), the road simply meandered through gentle
valleys and deposited me on the other side like a polite usher. Not even a
proper incline to complain about. Outrageous.
Along
the way, I met Ashish Pali and his two kids, en route to Mount Abu for a
festival. He handed me his contact details “in case you need help,” which was
so unexpectedly kind it single‑handedly rebooted my faith in humanity.
I
had planned to go up the mountain myself, but laziness staged a coup and won
decisively. I spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing — and felt a deep,
smug pride about it.
Abu
Road to Mehsana - Entering the Dry State of Gujarat (121 km)
Breakfast
was tea and crustless toast—an apparent relic of colonial times, like cricket
and bureaucracy. The ride was easy but dull, being a highway, though rural
India provided entertainment. I startled children so badly they fled behind
their mothers’ saris, peeking out only once they’d confirmed I wasn’t a demon.
To be fair, they’d probably never seen a white woman on a bicycle.
Crossing
into Gujarat felt momentous. It’s a dry state, meaning alcohol requires a
permit obtainable from large hotels. I lacked the motivation to pursue this
bureaucratic treasure hunt.
Mehsana
to Ahmedabad - Cycling Into the Chaos and Grace of Ahmedabad (70 km)
The
road was manageable, but entering Ahmedabad—population 6.6 million—was like
cycling into a blender. Traffic came at me from all directions, including some
I’m fairly sure defied physics. A friendly tuk‑tuk driver named Shabbier
rescued me and guided me to the Stayinn Hotel, which was both affordable and
central. I could have kissed him.
Ahmedabad
has been inhabited since the 11th century, which explains why the old city
looks like it’s been collecting stories for a millennium. A morning walking
tour was worth every rupee.
Kite
fighting is a local obsession. Fighter kites are small, flat, and controlled
entirely by line tension. The lines are coated with glass‑fibre strands,
turning them into airborne cheese‑cutters. Watching people coat the lines was
thrilling—and slightly alarming.
Later,
Shabbier took me to Adalaj’s step‑well, a five‑storey architectural marvel
built in 1498. Its history involves love, murder, devotion, and a dramatic leap
into the well—essentially a Shakespearean tragedy carved in stone.
Afterwards,
I visited Sabarmati Ashram, Gandhi’s headquarters during the independence
struggle. The place radiates quiet dignity. Gandhi chose the site because it
sat between a jail and a cemetery—an excellent metaphor for colonialism, which
I continue to find baffling in its arrogance.
Outside
stood the famous three wise monkeys: Mizaru (see no evil), Kikazaru (hear no
evil), and Iwazaru (speak no evil). They looked like they’d seen quite a lot of
evil anyway.
The
Kalam Kush paper mill was next—paper made by hand from fabric offcuts, a
Gandhian technique. It’s said government offices use this paper. I sincerely
hope that’s true; it would be delightful.
The
following morning, Shabbier and I visited Gulbai Tekra, known as Hollywood Basti
for its colourful clothing. The community carves Ganesh statues, and everyone
wanted their photo taken. Some women veiled their faces; others posed boldly.
We accidentally joined a funeral procession, which was not on the itinerary.
Later,
I saw homeless families living on the pavement, astonishingly organised: clocks
on the wall, beds, kitchen utensils, and children doing schoolwork with neat
multiplication tables. It was humbling.
Ahmedabad
to Vadodara and Being mistaken for Chinese (115 km)
My
route followed Gandhi’s famous Salt March, and I met numerous pilgrims heading
toward Dandi with great purpose and even greater enthusiasm. Stopping for a cup
of masala tea, someone asked — with absolute confidence — whether I hailed from
China. I nearly choked on my chai. By evening, I took a long, serious look at
myself in the mirror, turning my head this way and that, trying to see what
they saw. Never in my wildest imagination had I thought I resembled anyone from anywhere
except the slightly frazzled cyclist I was. The whole thing left me giggling — clearly,
they saw something I didn’t.
Cycling
in India is a sensory explosion: hooting horns, dust, incense, chanting,
rotting animals, immaculate cricket fields, ornate temples, homeless families,
rickshaw wallahs asking “What’s your country?” and motorcyclists demanding
selfies. It’s chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly wonderful.
A
grin spread across my face. This was India—bewildering, exhausting, and unforgettable.
Vadodara
to Tri‑Temple Complex - Into the Smog, the Chaos, and an Unexpected Sanctuary (135
km)
I
left Vadodara early-ish, mostly to avoid the morning traffic, which tends to
behave like a swarm of bees that has recently been insulted. Fortunately,
nothing much stirred until 10 a.m., making the escape surprisingly civilised.
The
highway had a generous shoulder, which was lovely except for the minor detail
that it was used by vehicles travelling in the opposite direction. Ox carts,
camel carts, trucks, buses, cars, tuk‑tuks — all heading south into the haze
with the confidence of creatures who had never once considered the concept of
“lane discipline.”
India
was quietly choking under its own smog, while half of parliament was in France
attending a Climate Change meeting. The irony was so thick you could spread it
on toast.
Stopping
for tea, a crowd gathered to inspect my bicycle with the seriousness of a
scientific committee. After much debate, they concluded my solar charger was
used to charge the bike. Someone suggested my water bottle contained petrol
because obviously a woman couldn’t possibly carry such a heavy load unaided. I
told them I ran on masala chai, which made them laugh and wobble their heads in
agreement.
Eventually,
I reached the turn‑off to Surat and asked about lodging. In India, the word
“hotel” usually means “restaurant,” so I was directed to a temple instead —
which turned out to be the Tri‑Temple Complex, a non‑denominational spiritual
centre dedicated to the welfare of the entire world. A bed cost INR100, food
INR30, and the brochures were a delightful mix of philosophy, cosmic diagrams,
and earnest attempts to explain the Trinity’s universal power. Most of it
sailed straight over my head, but I enjoyed the ride.
The
next morning, I finished reading the brochures. One titled “Adjust Everywhere”
was particularly thought‑provoking. Perhaps I should adjust myself rather than
expecting the world to adjust to me — a radical concept in the age of social
media, where everyone expects society to bend around their personal
preferences.
Tri‑Temple
Complex to Navsari – A Case of the Delhi Belly (40 km)
I
wasn’t feeling well but packed up anyway. At checkout, the temple refused
payment, though a discreet donation box stood nearby like a polite suggestion.
In hindsight, staying another day would’ve been wise, as I had a severe case of
Delhi belly. Cycling while vomiting and searching for bushes is not an activity
I recommend.
Forty
kilometres later, I reached Navsari and found a luxury hotel for INR 1,350
(about $20). I didn’t care about the price — I just wanted a bed. To my
astonishment, they also refused payment. I overheard them mention “many years
of cycle touring” and wondered how on earth they knew; did I look that haggard?
Whatever the reason, I was thrilled. I showered, collapsed onto a massive bed,
and spent the rest of the day alternating between bathroom and mattress.
Navsari
to Valsad - The Slow Slog (60 km)
By
morning, I felt marginally human again and continued south. My energy levels
were still questionable, but I made sure to thank the hotel owner for their
kindness. After 60 km, I was done, and the sight of Valsad felt like a warm
hug. I stopped without hesitation.
Valsad
to
Manor – Bicycle Wallahs are Guardian Angels (109 km)
Some
days everything goes wrong at once. I tried pumping my tyres only to discover
my pump was broken. Fortunately, a bicycle wallah materialised like a
guardian angel, pumped the tyres, and added oil to the chain.
Leaving
town, I cycled alongside water buffalo and cows. A signboard indicated lanes
for cars, trucks, and heavy vehicles — but no mention of buffalo or cows. At
least someone had attempted order, even if the livestock ignored it entirely.
I
passed a “cricket‑bat slum,” where every shack specialised in bat‑making. You
could even get one decorated by your favourite cricketer. Later, a chemist sold
me medication for nausea and diarrhoea. Never underestimate drug companies —
for INR65, I felt significantly better.
Still
low on energy, I bought a Coke and a Red Bull, a combination that made me fly
toward Mumbai like a caffeinated missile. I stopped only once before reaching
Manor, the perfect staging point for the final push into the city.
Manor
to
Mumbai’s Chaos (115 km)
I
left around nine, and all went well until about 50 km outside Mumbai, where the
traffic transformed into a terrifying, swirling mass of vehicles. I feared for
my life and simply tried to flow with the chaos.
Once
in Mumbai, I headed to Colaba, the backpacker district. Touts descended on me
like overly enthusiastic bees, insisting I follow them. I was exhausted and not
in the mood.
By
sheer luck, I stumbled upon Bentley’s Hotel — the same place I’d stayed seven
years earlier. The receptionist asked, “Have you not stayed here before?”
Surely, he says that to everyone, but then I remembered I had once arrived with
a broken arm and a black eye, left my bicycle there, disappeared for weeks, and
then reappeared.
I
got a massive ground‑floor room where I could wheel my bike straight in.
Perfect.
I
had no idea where to go next. I’d already cycled most of India. The original
plan was to ride the Delhi–Mumbai stretch I’d missed because of my broken arm.
I could also head south and meet Rachel and Patrick, who were cycling north, or
cross India toward Bangladesh.
My
laptop died and had to be repaired. They fixed it, but reinstalling everything
took most of the night. Technology: the gift that keeps on giving… headaches.
Mumbai
to
Alibag - Ferries, Friends, and a Gentle Escape from Mumbai (20 km + ferry)
A
short ride took me to the harbour, where ferries cross Thane Creek to Mandva.
This 16‑km, 60‑minute crossing is the best invention since sliced bread, saving
cyclists from Mumbai’s apocalyptic traffic. Ferries came and went constantly,
some leaning at angles that suggested they were carrying more passengers than
physics recommended.
At
Mandva, I met Ashish Agashe, a journalist and avid cyclist. He introduced me to
his brother Anil, his wife Janhavi, and their son Abhinav in Alibag. I was
invited to stay the night, which turned into a fascinating glimpse into a
thoughtful, environmentally conscious family.
I
also met Sumit Pali, India’s famous endurance cyclist — the man rides 400 km a
day, which is frankly absurd. The best part was meeting a whole circle of kind,
interesting people. Many remain friends today, at least online.
Alibag
to Murud - Along the Konkan
Coast (50 km)
After
chatting with Janhavi, I left embarrassingly late. The Konkan Coast looked
unchanged from my previous trip: rough narrow roads, steep little hills,
timeless villages, markets, and produce drying on the tarmac.
It’s
astonishing that such an undeveloped coastline exists only between 50 and 70 km
south of Mumbai’s enormous metropolis.
By
evening, the sunset over the Arabian Sea made me grin — it had been ages since
I’d seen the ocean, not since Thailand. Food carts appeared, I found a chair,
ordered local snacks, and watched beach cricket.
Morning
brought fishermen hauling in their catch while school kids continued their
cricket game from the night before. Villagers performed their morning ablutions
at the water’s edge. India never ceases to be astonishing, and I was 100% at
ease.
Murud
was so sleepy and pleasant that I stayed another day. Wandering along the
ocean, I reached the fish market — heaps of tiny fish and shrimp. Catching such
juvenile fish in such quantities surely spells trouble for the future, but the
market buzzed on regardless.
Murud
to
Harihareshwar – Beachside Temples and Shiva Lingas (52 km)
A
short ride and a ferry crossing made for an easy day. The road was narrow and
uneven in places, but monkeys darted across the path, frangipani scented the
air, and sandalwood drifted from temples. Occasionally, the unmistakable aroma
of the “good ’erb” wafted across the road — clearly someone was having a very
spiritual morning.
The
coastal route is hilly, and I encountered a few climbs, but nothing dramatic.
Harihareshwar is a beachside temple town with a lively tourist trade. The
temple structures themselves were surprisingly unimpressive for such a famous
site, but the place houses an ancient Shiva Linga, which explains the crowds.
The
hotel staff seemed delighted that a foreigner had chosen their establishment.
My window looked directly into the neighbour’s water buffalo shed, which felt
entirely normal for India. All night, buffalo stomped, snorted, and chewed cud
— surprisingly soothing, like a bovine white‑noise machine.
Harihareshwar
to Harnai - Ferries, Firewood
Breakfasts, and the Acrobatics Required to Reach Harnai (61 km)
Breakfast
came from a lady who disappeared into the backyard to wash dishes and stoke the
fire. She returned with an omelette and chapatti. In India, even breakfast can
be an adventure.
Four
kilometres later, a ferry took me across the river to Vesavi. Then came a “push‑up‑the‑hill”
road, followed by a coastal path, followed by another ferry — this one a tiny
boat that required acrobatics to load the bike and panniers. But it saved a 40‑kilometre
detour, so I considered it a win.
The
path alternated between ocean views and hill climbs, passing through
communities where markets spilled onto the road and ox carts had right of way.
Villagers stared slack‑jawed, which is always a good sign you’re on the right
route.
At
the third ferry crossing, I opted for the road bridge — I’d had enough tiny‑boat
gymnastics for one day.
Eventually,
I reached Harnai, famous for its colourful fishing harbour. It was the perfect
place to stop.
Harnai
to Guhagar - The Great Coastal Vanishing Act (90 km)
After a night of sleep so
fragmented it could’ve been used as modernist poetry, I rolled out around
midday — objectively the worst hour to begin cycling in India, unless your goal
is to melt gently into the asphalt.
My carefully chosen coastal road
via Karde immediately betrayed me by vanishing altogether. One moment: road.
Next moment: philosophical concept. I retraced my steps with the dignity of
someone pretending this was all part of the plan.
The rest of the day unfolded in a
series of steep, mischievous inclines — the kind that don’t break your spirit
but do make you reconsider every life choice that led you to bicycles. Still,
the scenery was lovely: tiny settlements popping up like friendly NPCs, each
more charming than the last.
Bridges? Absolutely not.
Maharashtra’s coastal roads prefer drama. Instead, a car ferry hauled me across
the river for a princely 16 rupees. Unfortunately, the path from the jetty to
the highway was a switchback so steep it left me wheezing like an asthmatic
walrus attempting CrossFit.
But the day stayed good, somehow.
I rolled into Guhagar without incident, mildly sun-roasted, slightly betrayed
by infrastructure, but otherwise victorious.
Guhagar
to
Ratnagiri – Rural India at its Finest (100 km)
Breakfast
was spicy idly and tea, and I left at 9:30. I planned to follow the shore, but
locals insisted there was no path. My GPS and Google Maps disagreed, but after
the previous day’s disappearing road, I decided to trust human beings over
satellites.
The
inland route was longer and hillier. No one mentioned the four‑kilometre uphill
stretch, which required an emergency Eno stop — fried chillies and steep climbs
are not compatible.
The
scenery was rural India at its finest: women doing laundry in streams, men in
dhotis, and landscapes so peaceful they felt fictional. The area was so
sparsely populated I ran out of water and had to flag down a truck driver. A
roadside stall later sold freshly made lemonade, which tasted like salvation.
Five
kilometres from Ratnagiri came the mother of all hills — so steep I had to walk
the bike. Not ideal after a long day.
I
spent two days in Ratnagiri doing laundry and internet chores.
Ratnagiri
to Devgad - Following the
Tarmac’s Commands to Devgad (100 km)
December
weather in India is perfect for cycling — warm but not humid. The route wasn’t
exciting, but it was hilly, as always. “Hilly an’ all,” as they say.
TOD
signs painted on the tarmac (presumably from a bicycle race) kept me entertained.
When they said “push,” I pushed. When they said “slow down,” I slowed. I obeyed
them like a well‑trained dog.
Devgad
marked the end of the day.
Devgad
to Malvan - Stares, Scares,
and a Bike with a Sense of Humour (50 km)
Breakfast
at a local joint brought the usual spectacle: the entire place froze upon my
arrival. You can either ignore it or greet everyone loudly and let them debate
your nationality, age, and purpose. I chose the latter.
The
day quickly turned bizarre. A man on a motorbike overtook me, stopped ahead,
and — as is often the case with men who stop ahead — turned out to be
masturbating. I flagged down a tuk‑tuk, pointed at the offender, and he vanished
instantly. Tuk‑tuks: the true heroes of India.
Thirty
kilometres later, my bicycle seized up completely. A friendly couple tried to
fix it, then flagged down a truck to take me to Malvan. Once unloaded at the
mechanic, the bike worked perfectly. A strange day indeed.
Malvan
to Arambol - Hills, Hippies,
and the Arambol Circus (80 km)
Seven
years earlier, I cycled this route with my sister Amanda, who claimed she had
to pedal up six hills in 25 kilometres. She wasn’t entirely wrong — the road
drops sharply into valleys and climbs steeply out again.
I
expected a gentle descent to the beach, but the approach to Arambol was just as
hilly. Arambol itself was a culture shock: white people everywhere, scooter‑driving
Europeans in feathery earrings, flowy cotton dresses, and bandanas. It was time
to don my own feathery earrings and blend in.
Life
in Arambol was so easy it felt suspicious, as though someone had forgotten to
include the usual Indian chaos. Most days were spent lounging on the beach or
wandering along the cliffs like a contented goat. Evenings were spent over
coffee or beer at beach restaurants, watching the sun melt into the Arabian
Sea.
One
night I overheard a group swapping travel stories. Someone announced, with
great solemnity, “…and at one time there wasn’t even any internet.” I nearly
snorted into my drink. Adventure travel has clearly evolved.
People‑watching
was endlessly entertaining. Indian women swam fully clothed, while Europeans
wore outfits that could be folded into a matchbox. The contrast was
magnificent.
Hanging
around long enough in a place like Arambol inevitably leads to questionable
decisions, so I enrolled in a five‑day Iyengar Yoga course. It was pricier than
expected, but I liked the idea of aligning my body so it could “heal,” which
sounded very noble.
I
was horrified to discover how inflexible I’d become. My thighs, back, and
shoulders behaved like rusted hinges. I blamed years of cycling and a complete
lack of stretching — a lifestyle choice that had clearly caught up with me.
The
course was intensive, lasting the entire morning. We had an instructor and
three helpers who adjusted limbs, hips, and egos as needed. It wasn’t about
touching your toes but about doing what was best for your body. Three days in,
I could already feel a difference, which was encouraging.
Evenings
were spent at the beach, observing the nightly circus. One side hosted a
drumming circle where people danced with the enthusiasm of toddlers on sugar.
On the other side, the Hare Krishna chanted and drummed. Fire dancers twirled
flaming objects, yogis stretched, and others sat in lotus position staring into
the void. Stalls sold feathery earrings, handmade flutes, and jewellery.
Restaurants placed tables along the water’s edge. The whole place radiated
festive eccentricity. What is there not to like about that?
Back
at the Peace Garden — where I stayed in a hut out back — the restaurant/bar
hosted nightly music. Socialising was effortless: you simply plonked yourself
on a cushion and conversation happened. The best part was that you could leave
at any moment without offending anyone. A social system I fully endorse.
Arambol
to
Panjim, Goa’s Capital (35 km)
Eventually,
I packed up and cycled to Panjim. Being a former Portuguese territory, the town
still clings lovingly to its heritage — tiled street names, colourful houses,
and an atmosphere that whispers “Lisbon, but with more curry.”
I
popped into Probyk, a bike shop, because my bicycle needed serious TLC. While
chatting with the staff, I was offered a heavily discounted room at a
guesthouse. I spent two days in absolute luxury while my bike was pampered by
professionals.
The
old quarters begged to be explored: colourful Portuguese buildings, lace
curtains, sleeping cats, and door frames painted in shades that could only be
described as “tropical optimism.” Wandering around felt like stepping into a
postcard.
Two
days later, I collected my bicycle, impressed by the mechanic’s skill. I
ordered two new tyres and waited for them to arrive, spending the time exploring
more of Panjim’s charming streets. That evening, I sat on a tiny wrought‑iron
balcony with a beer and masala peanuts, feeling very continental.
The
next day, with tyres installed, I was ready to roll.
Panjim
to Agonda: The Slug, the Hills, and the Beach Hut (75
km)
If anyone out there is
romanticising my life — imagining me as some sun‑kissed, effortlessly gliding
coastal cyclist — today would have cured them instantly. I woke up well rested,
my freshly serviced bike humming along like a well‑oiled deity, and yet I
felt like someone had replaced my blood with wet cement.
The coastal route was hilly, and
I inched up each incline with all the vigour of a dying slug attempting a
motivational comeback. Some days demand mental strength; this one demanded a
full psychological intervention.
Reaching the high point felt like
being released from a mild but persistent curse. From there, the road swooped
down into Agonda — now a bustling beach town lined with huts, stalls, and
restaurants, all radiating a confident “we know you’re tired and we’re going to
charge accordingly” energy. My beach hut cost more than I wanted to pay, but I
had the bargaining stamina of a wilted houseplant. I stayed an extra day
without a flicker of hesitation.
Agonda may have expanded into a
full‑blown tourist ecosystem, but it still knows how to soothe a weary cyclist.
It’s a fine place to flop, breathe, and pretend tomorrow’s hills don’t exist.
Agonda
to Roadside Hotel - Gliding
Into Karnataka and Accidentally Checking Into Backpacker Central (82 km)
Feeling
much better, I glided over the hills like a hot knife through butter. Soon I
left Goa and crossed into Karnataka. The landscape resembled Kerala’s
backwaters, despite being nowhere near Kerala — rice paddies, quiet
countryside, and a general sense of calm.
I tried
to take a selfie, but I’m terrible at them. After one shot, I gave up. It’s the
most monotonous activity imaginable.
Unsure
whether to detour to Om Beach, I settled for a roadside hotel. Prices in India
are printed on everything, but here the fee was nearly double. I suspected they
overcharged foreigners. Later, I discovered the Varadara Hotel was where
backpackers caught the bus. Suddenly, everything made sense.
Roadside
Hotel to
Murdeshwar – A Lost Cyclist and A Giant Shiva (90 km)
I
left around 9:30. The ride was pleasant, and I even met another cyclist — the
first since arriving in India. Unfortunately, I lost her when I assumed
Murdeshwar was further away than it actually was.
I
wasn’t sure I wanted to detour to Murdeshwar, but curiosity won. The town is
named after an aspect of Shiva, and a colossal 37‑metre statue of Shiva
dominates the skyline. It’s said to be the second-tallest Shiva statue in the
world. A massive 20‑storey temple stands nearby, making the town extremely
popular with devotees.
Bare‑chested
men in black wraparounds filled the area — men can only enter the temple bare‑chested
— giving the place a distinctive aesthetic.
Murdeshwar
to Udupi - a Wallet‑Whimpering
Pilgrimage to Udupi (109 km)
The ride to
Udupi was a proper mixed bag — the kind where you reach in hoping for a nice
chocolate and instead pull out a fistful of gravel. Roadworks dominated the
route, turning cycling into a slow‑motion misery parade. I hunted for a smaller
coastal road like a hopeful detective, but the coastline offered nothing except
disappointment and dust. Eventually, a new stretch of road materialised, smooth
and benevolent, as if the universe finally remembered I existed.
Udupi, of
course, is no ordinary town. It’s a temple powerhouse — home to a 13th‑century
Krishna temple encircled by eight monasteries. It’s usually lively, but today
it was overflowing, absolutely bursting at the seams thanks to the Paryaya
festival. The outgoing Swamiji hands over duties to the incoming Swamiji, and apparently,
the entire state shows up to witness the handoff.
Accommodation?
Forget it. I cycled in circles, performing a sweaty pilgrimage of my own, until
I finally landed a room at the fancy Sri Ram Residency. Even with a discount,
the price made my wallet whimper, but the luxury was undeniable. After the day
I’d had, I wasn’t about to argue.
A walk
around town revealed the full festival splendour: music drifting through the
streets, temples draped in flower garlands, and crowds moving with the kind of
collective enthusiasm only religious devotion or free snacks can inspire. Udupi
was glowing, chaotic, and utterly alive. I loved it!
Udupi
to Kasaragod, Kerala Welcomes
Me… Strangely (110 km)
Breakfast
came from roadside stands — cheap, delicious, and full of lively conversation.
Roadworks continued, making the day miserable. Crossing into Kerala, I found
the region conservative, with more burkas than I’d seen in Tehran. To add to
the surrealism, Communist Party flags lined the roads. The combination was
startling.
Someone
even gave me the middle finger from a car window — a first for India.
Accommodation
in Kasaragod was fully booked, but eventually I found a room and collapsed
gratefully.
My
mom, then 86, needed assistance, so I decided to return to South Africa to help
her. The plan was to stay as long as needed to ensure she was comfortable and
happy.
Kasaragod
to Kannur- The Long Slow Crawl
to Kannur (107 km)
I
left around 10 a.m. Roadworks continued endlessly, with long detours. Ten
kilometres is nothing in a car, but on a bicycle it feels like a personal
insult.
The
road narrowed as the day progressed, and Indian traffic behaved as usual —
cutting me off, overtaking into oncoming vehicles, and generally ignoring
physics.
To
distract myself, I invented imaginary jewellery designs. In reality, the day
passed slowly. Coconut and sugar‑cane juice vendors saved my sanity.
Kannur’s
market area revealed the Meridian Palace Hotel — not a palace, but good enough.
Kannur
to
Kozhikode (94 km)
The
previous day’s Facebook messages were wonderfully supportive, which warmed my
heart and slightly embarrassed me. I felt compelled to clarify that I wasn’t
about to become my mother’s caregiver. She had made it abundantly clear that
she didn’t want her children tending to her or living with any of us — and
frankly, I agreed. She preferred a nursing home, and my role was simply to help
her navigate the decision, not to become Florence Nightingale on a bicycle.
I
felt lethargic, and the day unfolded at the pace of cold porridge. The ride
wasn’t particularly exciting, though Fort Thalassery provided a brief moment of
historical enthusiasm. Fruit and juice stands kept me going, and I eventually
reached Kozhikode, where I hoped for a beachfront room. Alas, the beachfront
was priced for people who arrive by car, not by bicycle. I retreated into the
alleys and found something more modest.
Kozhikode
to Guruvayur - From Dreamy
Coastline to One Long Traffic‑Stitched Reality (90 km)
The
Kerala coast was not the dreamy, palm‑fringed paradise I’d been promised.
Instead, it felt like one extremely long village someone had accidentally
stretched across the entire state — stitched together with narrow roads,
honking traffic, and the occasional whiff of existential despair. The ocean was
allegedly nearby, but from the road, it may as well have been in another
dimension.
Seven
straight days of cycling had turned me into something resembling a damp rag
left on a windowsill, and I was fairly sure I’d developed bronchitis. India’s
air quality often resembles the inside of a vacuum cleaner that has just sucked
up a small carpet, so it wasn’t exactly surprising.
Kerala’s
people, however, were delightful enough to make up for the missing coastline.
“Welcome to Kerala!” they called, beaming, before launching into the standard
questionnaire: “What’s your country?” “What’s your good name?” And the national
favourite: “What’s the purpose of your journey?”
My
answer — “Only travelling” — was always met with a perplexed head wobble.
Apparently, travelling for no reason at all is suspicious behaviour.
Guruvayur
to Fort Kochi Final Ride,
before the next Journey (70 km)
My
final day of cycling in India was an emotional cocktail — relief, nostalgia,
and the faint dread of packing up my bicycle. After a short ferry ride from
Vypin Island, I arrived in Fort Kochi and checked into a room that was
approximately the temperature of molten lava, despite the fan’s heroic efforts.
With
my bike safely boxed by a local shop, I had a few days to enjoy Kochi. I spent
most of it eating momos at a Tibetan café and drinking excellent coffee at the
No18 Hotel. It was a pleasant way to wind down after months of dust, traffic,
and chai.
Preparing
for my early‑morning flight presented a dilemma: pay a steep taxi fare or wait
hours for the last airport bus at 7 p.m. I chose the bus, believing I could
entertain myself for a few hours. I was wrong, but I survived.
Thanks
to time‑zone wizardry, I landed in Cape Town on the same day. I ended up
staying nearly three months before realising my mother was perfectly fine
without me.
Cape
Town to Singapore (via Dubai & Colombo) –
On the Road Again
Not
everything on my to‑do list got done, but it was time to move on. Mid‑April
found me boarding a long flight to Singapore, via Dubai and Colombo. My final
destination was Bangkok, where I planned to meet Tania for a two‑month cycle
tour through Southeast Asia — my favourite region for novice cyclists. Food
everywhere, accommodation everywhere, and terrain that doesn’t try to kill you.
The
flight was tolerable, except for a six‑hour layover in Colombo. Fortunately, it
was Tamil New Year, and the airport was handing out free fruit, tea, coconut
milk, and rice cakes. The rice cakes were delicious, especially with the chilli
paste that could probably strip paint.
Epilogue
In
the end, the road delivered me to Fort Kochi, where the bicycle was boxed, the
dust settled, and the adventure paused just long enough for me to remember that
life off the bike still existed. A flight carried me homeward, time zones
folded neatly in my favour, and I found myself in Cape Town on the very same
day, wondering how a journey that had felt so enormous could end so abruptly.
India,
of course, didn’t end. It lingered—in the smell of incense on my clothes, in
the rhythm of distant drumming, in the memory of fishermen hauling nets at dawn
and women drying shrimp on the tarmac. It lingered in the head wobbles, the
chai, the chaos, and the kindness.
Three
months later, with my mother perfectly fine and my restlessness perfectly
intact, I set off again—back to Asia, back to the road, back to the gentle
absurdity of life lived from the saddle. Because once you’ve cycled India, the
world feels wonderfully, irresistibly open.
