Shenanigans on a bike - By Leana Niemand
RIDING INTO A PANDEMIC
156 INDIA (3) - Part 2
509 Kilometres - 9 Days
18 February – 24 March 2020
MAP
PHOTOS
PHOTOS - AMANDA
18
February – 10 March - Thailand and India
Amanda,
my sister, arrived in Thailand later than expected. A few days were spent in
Pattaya before flying to Kochi, India. The main reason for going to
Kochi was to enjoy a night on a houseboat. Once there, locating a boat was
straightforward, as there were innumerable ones to choose from.
Our
boat of choice was a private one with a single bedroom; thus, we had the entire
boat to ourselves. In no time at all, we were slowly put-putting along the
famous backwaters of Kerala. The price included lunch, dinner and breakfast,
and we immediately settled in upon the deck, beer in hand. The only disappointment
was the boat anchored overnight at the same spot we boarded. We assumed the
boat would anchor somewhere, but not in the same place!
The following morning, after breakfast and a short cruise, we disembarked and went to Goa on a beach holiday. We ate, drank, swam in the ocean and cried with
laughter. Before we knew it, Amanda’s holiday was over, and it was time to return
to South Africa.
With
my sister gone, I returned to my friends in Alibag to pick up my bicycle and ended up spending three nights instead of the planned one! My delayed departure
was due to Holi celebrations, a festival considered one of the most celebrated
in India. It’s a fun and colourful event which lasts a day and night. The
festival starts on the evening of Purnima or the Full Moon Day in the month of
Falgun. The vibrancy of colours brings positivity and joy to the event and the country
as a whole. The ritual starts by lighting a bonfire the night before,
symbolising the triumph of good over evil. The following day was spent playing
with colours.
Anil
and Janhavi fed me endlessly, and I was shown around town on the back of an
iconic Royal Enfield. It’s true what is said about India, you come as a visitor
but leave as part of a family. Following the festivities, I headed north toward Delhi to meet Caron for a month-long cycling holiday in India.
11
March – Alibag – Kalyan – 101 km
After
almost a month since my last ride, it felt good to be on the move. As Anil suggested,
I slowly made my way to the Rewas ferry, which took me to Karanja, making an
easy escape from Mumbai. The rest of the day was spent trying to avoid busy roads, and in the process, I hit a pothole so hard it caused an immediate flat tyre.
Replacing
the tube and 101 kilometres later, I slinked into Kalyan, where accommodation proved more difficult to find than expected. The majority of budget places didn’t cater to foreigners, and, tail between my legs, I had to cycle off in search of an alternative abode. Eventually, a reasonably pricey establishment took me in.
12
March – Kalyan – Kasa – 86 km
I
was umming and ahhing about which route to take and eventually decided on cycling
along the coast as it looked more interesting than the inland option.
The
first 30 kilometres were a fascinating ride, as that section was a shortcut through a deeply rural part of India. I hadn’t seen so many surprised faces in a long
while, and it appeared a rarity to see a foreign woman on a bicycle in that
area. Again, and with a jolt, I realised just how far apart our worlds were.
Try as I might, I didn’t think a foreigner could fully grasp their rural culture.
It
became evident my rear wheel had a severe wobble; it must’ve been from hitting
the pothole the previous day. There was nothing one could do, and all wobbling,
I resumed my ride.
Around
midday, Caron’s message stated all tourist visas to India had been cancelled due
to the Coronavirus. This was devastating news as I was looking forward to her
visit, but far more devastating to her as she had already purchased her ticket
and was packed and ready to roll. I called it a day at the next best hotel to
chat with her and discuss further plans. The map was scanned to find a bike
shop. The next available one was 55 kilometres north, or one could continue to
Daman, 65 kilometres northwest along the coast, where surely one would find such
a shop.
That
night, my abode was a room above a bustling 24-hour roadside restaurant, which made for a noisy affair. At least the food was superb, and the room cost half as much as the previous night. My short cycling day gave me plenty of time to
do laundry, and I hoped all would be dry by morning.
13
March – Kasa – Daman – 65 km
The
dreaded highway ran the next 55 kilometres to Vapi, which had a bicycle shop.
They looked at the wheel, and the problem seemed to be the tyre, not the rim.
Daman,
a former Portuguese enclave, was just 10 kilometres further and not much of a tourist destination, with a black beach that wasn’t particularly scenic. Nonetheless,
the town still hints at old Portuguese colonial times in Fort Jerome, Monti
Daman Fort, and the Dom Jesus Church. While walking the narrow lanes to the
fishing harbour, one could almost imagine being in Portugal.
14
March – Daman
One
more day was spent in Daman while trying to sort out my internet connection, and,
in the process, I warmed to scruffy Daman.
It was said that Diogo de Melo was blown ashore during a violent storm in 1523. He then claimed
the land for king and country, built a fort, and the area remained in Portuguese
hands for the next 400 years. Daman is by no means picturesque, but the
inexpensive food and beer prices made up for the lack of scenery.
The
violent storm’s story scared me, and I considered changing my plans and heading
in the opposite direction. I’d been cycling into the wind the past two days - no
fun at all.
15
March - Daman - Renbasera guest house - 25 km
During
the night, I woke with the infamous Delhi belly and felt tired and weak in the
morning. Unfortunately, staying an additional day wasn’t possible. I was
informed the hotel was being renovated, and all rooms had to be vacated.
First,
the idea was to move to another place, but once on the bike, I proceeded along
the coastal road. My lack of energy caused slow progress. Still, I made a short detour to the Parsi Fire Temple, built in 1742, to see what it was
about. The Zoroastrian religion appeared complex, and I didn’t even try to
understand it. Only Parians were allowed, and I, thus, couldn’t enter the
complex. Outside, vendors sold tiny pieces of wood (some not so small) as
offerings to keep the flame going.
Cycling
and vomiting under the scrutiny of villagers is no fun at all. What a picture I
must’ve made, and I wondered what they made of such a spectacle. Reaching the highway,
a guesthouse along the road came just at the right time, and I couldn’t have
been happier. On trying to eat, nothing stayed down, and by evening, the
friendly man at reception offered to find me fruit. How kind of him.
16
March - Renbasera guest house – Surat – 100 km
In
the morning, I felt a whole lot better and was keen to get underway. Unfortunately, the dry, hot, dusty air and heavy traffic made cycling unpleasant. The
temperature climbed to 38°C, and it was barely the beginning of spring. Caron couldn’t
come to India anymore due to the cancellation of tourist visas, which could’ve been a
blessing in disguise. By April, the mercury rises to 40-45°C, not a pleasant
time to be cycle touring.
Even
drinking a considerable amount, it remained almost impossible to keep hydrated
in such weather. En route, I invested in a face mask as people gave me a wide berth.
One couldn’t blame them, as travellers were primarily responsible for spreading
the Coronavirus.
I
pushed onward with a mask-covered face until reaching the outskirts of Surat, where
I bunked down at the roadside Swagat Inn with an adjacent restaurant.
17
March – Surat – Vadodara – 130 km
Strangely
enough, I didn’t feel sleepy the previous night and only switched the lights
off at around 3h00. Yet, surprisingly, I still woke early, felt remarkably good, and headed toward Vadodara.
The
mask I bought was a blessing in disguise, as my mouth and lips didn’t get as dry
as earlier. Six kilometres down the drag, I stopped to get a bite to eat and
then pushed onward. Apart from a few roadside stalls selling colourful truck
decorations and ladies in colourful saris collecting water from wells, there wasn't much else happening.
In Vadodara, the best place to find accommodation was near the train station, as that’s where one usually finds budget rooms. However, some hotels claimed they
were fully booked, which I doubted, and I suspected they weren’t keen on
accommodating foreigners. The Coronavirus had become a royal pain in the ass.
18
March – Vadodara
With
the Coronavirus spreading like wildfire, cycle touring became no fun at all. Attractions were closed, hotels were unwilling to let foreigners in, and all festivals were cancelled. Phew! Rumours of a complete lockdown scared me, and I had time to rethink plans as the last thing I wanted was to get stuck in a nondescript place for an unforeseen period. I had two good options: one, to return to Goa and hang out there until the virus blew over (not a bad one), or two, retreat to Thailand, which made financial sense since my accommodation there is free, but not as lovely as Goa. Whatever the decision, I had to return to Mumbai to arrange onward transportation.
With
my mind made up, I purchased a train ticket for the following morning. As the
bike had to be booked in at the parcel office, I returned to my abode,
collected the bike and rode the short distance to the station. There, the bicycle
was sent on its way at a meagre 100 rupees. Sadly, one couldn’t book in the
panniers, leaving me with a dreadfully awkward handlebar bag and four panniers
to lug around. I say again, I intensely dislike using public transport - it’s far
easier to cycle.
19
March - Vadodara – Mumbai by train
The
train to Mumbai was at 7.30 and required an early tuk-tuk ride to the station. Luckily,
there’s always a porter in India to help carry bags. So, I strolled unencumbered
to the platform where my train was to arrive. This gave plenty of time to have
a steaming cup of chai from one of the iconic chai wallahs and chat with the
kids living at the station. I watched a family pack up after their night sleeping on the platform and was in awe of how organised they were.
It
felt all gave me a wide berth as foreigners were suspected of spreading the Coronavirus.
I was, thus, left in peace and could decide what to do next. While on the train, I booked a flight to Bangkok and could only hope it wouldn’t be
cancelled. My train’s destination was 12 kilometres from Colaba, the main
touristy area. I, therefore, looked for a bike shop and accommodation close to
the station. The plan was to collect the bicycle, cycle to the shop, find a box
and then grab a taxi to a nearby hotel. With the hotel booked and paid, I could
kick back until reaching Mumbai.
The
train arrived at its destination around 15h00, and I found a porter, collected the bicycle, and cycled to the predetermined shop. The shop gave me one look,
covered their faces, told me they were closing and shooed me away. I was
shocked! Around the corner, a friendlier shop had a box and was prepared to pack
the bicycle. I grabbed a taxi to the place booked, but the staff informed me they
were closed! What the heck? I tried contacting Agoda, but without any luck. The
hotel manager wasn’t accommodating either and referred me to Agoda. Security
(with covered faces) again shooed me away. They were adamant I’d leave immediately
and couldn’t do my phoning from the foyer.
Eventually,
a taxi took me to Colaba, 12 kilometres away. Coloba, which usually had a
lively tourist trade, was like a graveyard, with no one in sight. Those
walking around did so with quick, urgent, masked-covered faces. The warren of stalls
usually lining the road was packed up, and restaurants closed. Mercifully, my
chosen hotel allowed me in, and I was sure I was the sole guest. How bizarre had
this whole situation become? I biked through the N1H1 and SARS pandemics, but have
never experienced anything this crazy. Worldwide, flights were being cancelled, and I could only pray my flight would take off.
20
March – Mumbai
The
usually bustling Mumbai was deserted, and it was the eeriest feeling walking
through this megacity without a soul in sight.
21
March – Mumbai, India – Bangkok, Thailand
My
flight was at the ungodly hour of four o’clock in the morning, and it felt like I
was the sole person at this usually hectic airport. Once again, a considerable
amount was charged for the 5 kg overweight, but one couldn’t do much about that.
I simply wanted the flight to take off and not be cancelled. While waiting, I
kept an anxious eye on the flight schedules. I nervously watched as flights
were cancelled, wondering if mine would be next.
Relieved,
the plane touched down at Bangkok airport as scheduled, and I caught the usual
bus to Jomtien.
22
March - Jomtien, Thailand
Finding
myself in my little bunker wasn’t all bad, even though it wasn’t by choice or
the best of areas. A nice long walk along the ocean put me in a better frame of
mind and, once back, I unpacked and cleaned the place, which was a tad dusty by
then. After reassembling the bicycle, I rode to the supermarket to stock up on essentials, as I surmised I would be in Thailand for a while.
23
March - Jomtien
I
took a walk in the morning, but it was tedious, so I started jogging. Not much
further, I tripped over one of the uneven drain covers and knew something was
wrong with my wrist as it didn’t look quite normal. I continued walking, but upon returning to the apartment, I realised something was indeed wrong. A baht bus took
me to Pattaya Memorial Hospital.
The
baht bus (so-called because back in the day, it cost a baht) is a pickup-style
truck with a canopy roof and two bench seats in the back for passengers. At 10
baht per person per ride, the baht bus (aka songthaew) is the most popular and convenient way to get to and from Jomtien and Pattaya.
At
the hospital, I was impressed with the service. X-rays revealed a fractured radius,
and the very competent doctor on duty suggested an operation to fit a plate. I wasn’t
keen on such an operation and insisted on a cast instead, a painful process,
but I survived.
24
March - Jomtien
I did my usual morning walk, as by now, the knee was also painful; all I could do was walk, as running was out of the question, and with the cast, it wasn’t possible to cycle. At least upon my return, I could soak halfway in the pool.
I
further discovered I barely made it to Thailand by the skin of my teeth. The
day following my arrival, Thailand closed all airports to incoming flights. It seemed that anyone in Thailand would be there for an unforeseen period. Phew! With the
limited amount I could do with the arm in a cast, I started editing my photos.
