Temples, Traffic, and a Troubled Toe
154 INDIA (3)
2,658 Kilometres – 72 Days
9 December 2019 – 17
February 2020
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MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
Prelude
There
are journeys that begin with intention, and others that begin with momentum.
This
one belonged to the latter.
The
idea of cycling across southern India formed gradually, assembling itself from
maps, curiosity, and a persistent sense that there was a road worth following.
India,
even in imagination, resists simplicity. It demands less certainty and more
willingness—to adapt, to pause, to be unsettled. Plans tend not to hold.
Expectations shift. The road rarely behaves as anticipated.
I
arrived in Chennai with a bicycle, a loose direction, and the quiet confidence
that things would resolve themselves along the way.
They
did.
Just
not in the ways I expected.
How
to Lose Sleep, Dignity, and Possibly a Toe
Arrival
in Chennai
There’s
something deeply suspicious about air travel pricing. The farther you go, the
less it costs—rather like being rewarded for poor decisions. In my case, this
meant flying from Kuala Lumpur to Chennai via New Delhi at the entirely
reasonable hour of 2 a.m., which is when only insomniacs, night-shift workers,
and deeply confused travellers are awake.
The
flight involved a three-hour layover in Delhi, during which I discovered that
modern aeroplane seats are specifically engineered to prevent any meaningful
form of sleep. By the time I arrived in Chennai, I had achieved that rare state
of consciousness where one is both awake and not, like a philosophical potato.
A
taxi—made more expensive by the presence of my bicycle, which apparently
counted as a luxury passenger—delivered me to the grandly named Paradise
Guesthouse. Paradise, it turned out, was operating on a slightly metaphorical
level. The room didn’t come with towels, but at $7 a night, I felt it would be
unreasonable to expect fabric.
India did not so
much introduce itself as hurl itself at me all at once. Chennai was a sensory
ambush. Traffic
surged in all directions at once, ignoring what I assume were intended as
roads. Tuk-tuks buzzed about like caffeinated insects. Sacred cows drifted
through it all with the serene confidence of beings who knew they could not
legally be run over. Meanwhile, people prayed at roadside temples while, just
next to them, something smelled like a sewer had lost the will to live.
It
was overwhelming. Gloriously, magnificently overwhelming.
India
is, I learned, quite large. In fact, it is so large that casually mentioning
its size feels like describing the ocean as “a bit wet.” It stretches from
Himalayan peaks that threaten the sky to rice paddies sitting below sea level.
Naturally, I decided to cycle south, as one does when confronted with a
subcontinent.
Chennai
itself is, by all measurable standards, very busy. I stepped outside and
immediately became a minor celebrity, attracting curious stares. I like to
think it was my rugged charm, not the fact that I was wheeling around a touring
bicycle, looking like I’d lost an argument with gravity.
To
escape the intensity, I gravitated toward the coastline and its enormous beach—an
oasis where one could briefly forget about traffic, noise, and existential
uncertainty.
A
visit to the Kapalweshwarar Temple, revealed a riot of colour and detail, every
inch adorned as if someone had been told, “Decorate this,” and took it
personally. Compared to this, Fort St. George felt like a mildly disappointed
cardboard box. I wisely abandoned it in favour of food, which is always the
correct decision.
While
eating a delicious palak paneer, I noticed something unexpected: many of the
construction workers were women. This felt quietly significant, though I was
too busy eating to fully reflect on it.
Chennai
to Mamallapuram (65 km)
Leaving
Chennai by bicycle felt less like travel and more like participating in a
live-action survival game.
Imagine,
if you will, every vehicle ever invented—cars, buses, tuk-tuks, bicycles, and
several cows—occupying the same space at the same time, all moving in loosely
agreed directions. Now insert yourself into this system and hope for the best.
Amazingly,
I survived. Drivers seemed accustomed to chaos, and possibly immune to fear.
After
about 15 kilometres of what I can only describe as “traffic roulette,” I
stopped at a McDonald’s. This raised a fascinating question: what does
McDonald’s serve in a country where cows are sacred?
The
answer, reassuringly, was not beef. I received an egg-and-cheese muffin, which
was perfectly edible but tasted like it had been designed by someone with a
deep mistrust of seasoning. India, I had already discovered, does not suffer
from this problem.
Once
outside the city, things improved dramatically. The road opened up, the air
cleared, and I cycled along the coast with a tailwind, feeling briefly like I
knew what I was doing.
Mamallapuram
turned out to be a heavily touristed town filled with ancient temples, souvenir
stalls, and prices that reflected its UNESCO status. I spent the afternoon
exploring ruins that had stood since the 7th century, which is always humbling
when you realise your socks don’t last a week.
To
Puducherry (101km)
Cycling
along the Bay of Bengal was a constantly changing experience. Roads improved,
deteriorated, vanished, and reappeared with little warning, as if they too were
unsure of their purpose.
I
stopped frequently—for coconut water, ginger tea, and conversations with
locals, who were unfailingly friendly despite my appearance suggesting I had
recently escaped from somewhere.
Eventually
I reached Puducherry, which felt unexpectedly European thanks to its French
colonial past. Streets were lined with French-style buildings, cafés, and the
faint suggestion that one should be carrying a baguette.
I
stayed in an ashram guesthouse, which was clean, peaceful, and slightly more
expensive than my usual accommodations—though still cheaper than carrying my
bags upstairs, which I had decisively ruled out as an option.
Rain
the next morning gave me an excellent excuse to do nothing. I wandered through
markets, bought a new camera (which I justified poorly), and congratulated
myself on making sensible financial decisions.
Auroville
and Beyond (80 km)
The
day began damply but improved enough to justify movement. I cycled to
Auroville, a community dedicated to peace, sustainability, and, judging by
appearances, excellent coffee.
It
was filled with foreigners living in harmony, organic farms, and art
shops—basically a parallel universe where everyone seemed calmer and better
dressed.
Back
on the road, I was reminded that India does not maintain a consistent tone.
Quiet roads abruptly turned into loud ones, peaceful moments dissolved into
honking chaos, and your internal state oscillated accordingly.
Snack-wise,
however, things were excellent. Samosas, vada, pakora—India understands snacks
at a level most countries can only aspire to. With a bag full of goodies, I continued
south to Chidambaram where rain arrived with determination and my accommodation sank
accordingly in quality. Still, Chidambaram had the great Nataraja temple, where
Shiva, according to legend, defeated Kali in a divine dance contest by doing
the sort of thing only a god could think to do. India has no shortage of
stories in which cosmic truths are sorted out through choreography, and one
learns quickly not to question the system.
The
Toe Incident (78 km)
On
my way inland, I visited a temple whose name looked as if someone had
accidentally leaned on a keyboard: Gangaikondacholapuram. It was
magnificent—huge, ancient, and deeply impressive.
It
was also where I stubbed my toe on a metal pipe.
At
first, I assumed it was a minor inconvenience. Then I realised it might be
broken. This was less convenient.
Cycling,
oddly, was manageable. Walking, however, became a slow, awkward performance
involving limping, wincing, and attracting the kind of attention usually
reserved for street theatre.
By the time I
reached Kumbakonam, I was taping my toes together with duct tape, attracting
even more attention than usual, and limping to dinner with hunger, irritation
and a concealed beer from a government-run liquor outlet clutched in a brown
paper bag. I must have looked like the aftermath of a failed private
expedition. After the meal and with beer in hand and dignity
somewhat diminished, I limped back to my room, looking like someone who had
made several poor life choices in quick succession.
Trichy
(and Ongoing Toe Drama) (101 km)
The
toe situation worsened when I accidentally kicked the bed, prompting a
vocabulary exercise involving repeated use of one particular four-letter word.
Still,
onward I went. Cycling was possible if I positioned my foot carefully, which
resulted in a pedalling style that would not be recommended in instructional
videos.
I
passed through historic towns, visited enormous temples, and marvelled at
architecture from a time when people clearly had both skill and patience—two
qualities I was currently lacking.
By
the time I reached Trichy, I was exhausted, slightly broken, and navigating
what may have been the most chaotic traffic yet. In a strange twist of fate, I
ended up in the exact same hotel I had stayed in 11 years earlier—either a
remarkable coincidence or proof that I had learned nothing.
I
spent the next days visiting temples by tuk-tuk, which was vastly preferable to
cycling or walking, especially with a rebellious toe.
Eventually,
I attempted laundry, failed to find detergent, and had to extend my stay
because my clothes refused to dry—much like everything else in India, they
operated according to their own mysterious rules.
How
to Survive Illness, Chaos, and a National Holiday
Trichy
to Madurai - A Slow-Motion Collapse (130km)
At
some point between Trichy and Madurai, I began to suspect my body had quietly
resigned from active duty.
I
felt dreadful—slow, weak, and slightly delirious—as I pedalled onward with all
the enthusiasm of a damp sponge. Naturally, my mind leapt to the most cheerful
conclusion possible: dengue fever. Having had it twice before, I considered
myself something of an expert on catastrophic illness.
The
ride itself was uneventful except for a church that appeared to be suffering
from an architectural identity crisis. It looked part Hindu, part Islamic, and
entirely unsure of itself—rather like me at that moment. Still, it struck me as
oddly appropriate. India, after all, has been mixing beliefs for centuries,
often with far better results than my immune system was achieving.
By
the time I reached Madurai, I was so relieved to find a bed that I briefly
considered hugging it.
Despite
feeling like I’d been lightly run over, I insisted on visiting the famous
Meenakshi Temple, because one must maintain standards, even while falling
apart. The temple was enormous—magnificent, intricate, and almost insultingly
grand given my current state. Unfortunately, photos were only allowed from the
outside, which was probably for the best, as I suspect I would have
photographed mostly ceilings in a horizontal position.
The
Illness - This Might Be Serious
Back
in my room, things escalated unpleasantly.
There
were aches. Fever. Pain behind the eyes. A cough. And, most inconveniently,
digestive issues that made every short walk feel like a high-risk expedition. I
concluded, with scientific precision, that something was very wrong.
At
the time, I suspected dengue again. In hindsight, it turned out to be COVID,
but it was before the headline-grabbing news that such a flu existed. I just
thought it was the sort of flu that makes you feel consistently miserable.
I
abandoned all plans and committed myself to lying down, occasionally sitting
up, and wondering if I would ever feel normal again.
Recovery,
Culture, and the Truth About “Curry”
After
several days of doing very little (which I executed expertly), I began to
improve. I could walk without needing to pause every few steps, which felt like
a significant personal achievement.
Desperate
for stimulation, I ventured out to see the palace, mostly to confirm that the
outside world still existed.
During
this period of enforced reflection, I also made a startling discovery: in
India, you cannot order a “curry.”
This
is because “curry,” as it turns out, is essentially a British invention—a
linguistic catch-all derived from the Tamil word kari, meaning sauce. In other
words, I had been wandering around a country of immense culinary diversity
asking for something that didn’t technically exist.
It
was like going to France and ordering “food.”
Christmas,
Religion, and Mild Philosophising
As
Christmas approached, I faced a dilemma: travel or remain in my increasingly
intimate relationship with my hotel room.
India
celebrates the holiday in a delightfully understated way. It’s less a religious
event and more of a general excuse to gather, eat excessively, and possibly set
off fireworks—an approach I wholeheartedly support.
I
found myself reflecting on religion in general, concluding that most of them,
when stripped down, involve family, food, gifts, and a vaguely festive
atmosphere. Add a hat—preferably red and slightly ridiculous—and you’re
essentially there.
Peace
to all, and pass the snacks.
The
Rickshaw Ride That Made Me Feel Like a Terrible Person
While
wandering Madurai, I was approached by a cycle rickshaw driver offering a tour.
Ordinarily, I might have declined, but he was so enthusiastic that I found
myself agreeing before logic intervened.
What
followed was not just a tour, but a heartfelt performance.
He
showed me markets, explained customs, waved to friends, and proudly announced
my presence as though I were some sort of visiting dignitary—which I was
absolutely not. The tour stretched to over two hours, powered by nothing but
human effort and a truly impressive level of enthusiasm.
At
the end, I gave him everything I had on me—about 500 rupees—which felt
embarrassingly small. His reaction, however, suggested I had just financed a
minor life upgrade.
It
was humbling, slightly uncomfortable, and deeply moving all at once—the kind of
experience that makes you rethink your assumptions and your wallet
simultaneously.
Language,
Confusion, and General Observations
India
has approximately 780 languages, which explains why communication is both
impressively successful and occasionally baffling.
There
is no single national language, which feels like a wise decision when
confronted with that many options. English works as a convenient bridge, while
Hindi covers a large portion of the population—but even that isn’t universal.
In
short, everyone somehow understands each other, which seems mildly miraculous.
A
Strategic Retreat (106 km)
Feeling
marginally human again, I set off toward Dhanushkodi—only to discover I was
cycling directly into a headwind of considerable enthusiasm.
After
15 kilometres of determined suffering, I made the bold and highly strategic
decision to turn around.
This
is one of cycling’s great lessons: perseverance is admirable, but occasionally
the correct move is to admit defeat and go the other way.
I
redirected inland, where life was quieter. Farmers dried grains on the road,
calmly moving aside whenever vehicles approached. I tried to identify the
crops—sorghum, millet, possibly something else—though my agricultural expertise
remains theoretical at best.
Solar
Eclipse and Mild Photography Failure (90 km)
The
next morning began with chai (as all civilised days should), followed by a
sudden and slightly dramatic darkening of the sky.
It
was, I realised, a solar eclipse.
Naturally,
I set up my camera on a bridge—a decision that quickly proved flawed, as every
passing vehicle caused the ground to vibrate like a poorly tuned washing
machine. The resulting photos were, in technical terms, disappointing.
Still,
I like to think I captured the spirit of the eclipse, if not the image.
Next,
I headed to Vettuvan Koil, an 8th-century rock-cut temple that remains
unfinished. According to legend, a rivalry between a father and son led to the
son's death as he completed his sculpture on the lower hills first, which
angered the father. In his rage, the father killed the son, and the shrine was
left unfinished. However, the hike to the top was worth it. Not only did it
provide a stunning view of the tiny, colourful village below, but it also
showcased some fascinating rock-cut carvings.
Approaching
the End of India
Kanyakumari,
where All of India Has Come to Visit (89 km)
The
ride to Kanyakumari—the southernmost point of mainland India—was pleasantly
uneventful, with wind at my back and snacks along the way (always a winning
combination).
Then
I arrived. Kanyakumari was, quite simply, chaos.
It
appeared that the entire population of India—approximately 1.3 billion people,
give or take—had chosen this exact moment to gather in one very small town.
Hotels were full, streets were packed, and the general atmosphere was somewhere
between festival and logistical catastrophe.
I
eventually found a room for 2,000 rupees, which came without a towel, hot
water, or what one might call “extras.” Or, arguably, “basics.”
Still,
supply and demand had spoken, and I had lost.
The
location itself, however, was remarkable—the meeting point of the Bay of
Bengal, the Arabian Sea, and the Indian Ocean. It should have been peaceful and
reflective.
Instead,
it was loud.
Kerala
and the Sudden Return of Civilisation (Sort Of) (94 km)
By
some miracle, I began to feel properly healthy again just as I left
Kanyakumari—though the road immediately became hilly, as if to test my
recovery.
The
ride along the coast was beautiful: fishing villages, quiet beaches, and
endless curious questions from locals. The standard trio—“What’s your good
name?”, “Where are you from?”, and “How old are you?”—became a kind of
conversational ritual.
Crossing
into Kerala felt like entering a different country. The scenery shifted,
backwaters appeared, and everything seemed greener, calmer, and faintly more organised.
Kovalam,
my destination, was a beach town filled with tourists, restaurants, and prices
that suggested I had accidentally upgraded my lifestyle.
For
one brief moment, I considered embracing this new reality.
Then
I saw the accommodation costs and reconsidered immediately.
Luxury,
Beauty, and a Spa Decision
Despite
my frugality, I made one questionable but ultimately satisfying decision: I
treated myself to a leg wax and a pedicure.
This
was partly practical, partly indulgent, and entirely surreal given the
preceding weeks of sweat, dust, and general dishevelment. For a short time, I
looked almost respectable.
New
Year’s Eve – Noise, Music, and Controlled Chaos
New
Year’s Eve in Kovalam was, in a word, loud.
Several
bands competed for auditory dominance along a one-kilometre stretch of beach,
creating what can only be described as a musical free-for-all. Tourists
wandered between them like participants in a slightly disorganised parade.
Midnight
arrived with modest fireworks—more polite than spectacular—but the celebrations
carried on with enthusiasm.
And
there I was, somewhere between exhaustion and contentment, having survived
illness, injury, and a small portion of India’s chaos—ready, somewhat
inexplicably, for more.
Protests,
Pedicures, and the Curious Case of the Rebellious Toe
Kovalam
to Varkala: An Athletic Start to the Year (61 km)
I
began the new year in what can only be described as a mildly undignified
fashion—pushing my bicycle uphill while sliding backwards out of my sandals.
The
hill out of Kovalam was so steep that gravity took on a personal interest in my
progress. Fortunately, a friendly shop owner stepped in to assist, and together
we wrestled the bike to the top. It was January 1st, and I had already
experienced my first act of kindness, which felt both heartwarming and deeply
necessary.
The
rest of the day was gloriously uneventful—a scenic, gentle ride through rural
Kerala, where I was once again something of a travelling curiosity. A foreign
woman on a bicycle is apparently not an everyday occurrence.
Breakfast
at a roadside stall involved toasted rice-and-coconut pancakes (or something
closely resembling them), accompanied by egg and tea, and delivered with a
polite expression of surprise by the stall owner, who seemed mildly astonished
that I existed.
The
road itself ran along a narrow strip of land, with the ocean on one side and
backwaters on the other. It was spectacular—though edged with ruins, possibly
remnants of the 2004 tsunami, which gave the scenery a slightly sobering
undertone.
Varkala
was busy but manageable, and for once accommodation prices were reasonable. I
celebrated by swimming, eating, and drinking tea in quantities that suggested I
was making up for lost time.
Varkala
to Alappuzha - Deep Thoughts While Cycling Slowly (112 km)
At
some point on the road, I was once again asked the question that every cyclist
dreads:
“Why
are you travelling by bicycle?”
This
is not an easy question.
It
invites a level of introspection that one is rarely prepared for when slightly
sweaty and in need of snacks. I briefly considered offering something
philosophical—freedom, simplicity, the pursuit of meaning—but in truth, the
answer is far less impressive.
I
just like it.
Anything
more complicated begins to sound suspiciously like a TED Talk.
I
did reflect, however, that staying in one place, working endlessly, and waiting
politely for retirement might actually be the braver option. My version of
life—wandering around the world, occasionally breaking toes—may simply be a
creative form of avoidance.
Roads,
Floods, and Moses-Level Crowd Control
Kerala,
despite suffering devastating floods not long before, had impressively
recovered. Some roads, however, still bore the scars—repaired with gravel that
transformed cycling into something resembling a low-speed massage chair.
The
highlight of the journey came when I accidentally cycled straight into a
protest involving what appeared to be several thousand people.
At
this point, one generally expects things to go badly.
Instead,
the police simply ushered me through the crowd as if this sort of thing
happened all the time. The masses parted obligingly, and I pedalled through
like a slightly confused and underprepared celebrity.
For
a brief moment, I experienced what it must feel like to be important.
It
passed quickly.
Budget
Living and Life Admin
I
checked into a remarkably inexpensive hostel where the bed consisted of a
mattress placed directly on the floor—a design choice that suggested minimalism
or possibly just practicality.
Here,
I did laundry, caught up on neglected tasks, and generally behaved like a
responsible adult—an unfamiliar but satisfying experience.
Fort
Kochi - History, Laundry, and Dramatic Makeup (60 km)
A
short ride brought me to Fort Kochi, a place layered with history from nearly
every empire that had ever felt inclined to visit India.
Portuguese,
Dutch, British—it was essentially a historical relay race, each taking over
from the other for a while.
There
was even a neighbourhood called Jew Town, complete with a synagogue, which felt
both surprising and entirely in keeping with India’s tendency to include
everything.
While
wandering the backstreets, I discovered the washing ghats, where laundry is
still done entirely by hand. Men stood in water, energetically slapping clothes
against stone in a way that made my own laundry efforts seem embarrassingly
half-hearted.
That
evening, I attended a Kathakali performance.
Before
the show, the actors applied elaborate makeup—an hour-long process that made me
briefly reconsider my own standard of getting ready, which typically involves
finding clean socks.
The
performance itself relied on facial expressions and hand gestures so precise
that it made everyday human communication seem decidedly inefficient. And,
somewhat alarmingly, they intentionally redden their eyes using seeds placed
under the eyelids. Dedication, clearly, has limits—and they had surpassed mine.
Fort
Kochi – Chavakkad – Calicut - Ferries, Chaos, and Unwanted Attention (90 km x
2)
The
next two days involved a combination of ferries, coastal roads, and frequent
changes of plan.
Ferries
in India are wonderfully inexpensive and slightly mysterious operations. You
board, pay almost nothing, and are transported efficiently across water—often
with your bicycle included at no extra cost (or at least no clearly defined
one).
Some
roads were idyllic—quiet fishing villages and narrow lanes—while others were
traffic-heavy and exhausting. I zigzagged between them, never quite committing.
Cycling
in India brings constant attention—mostly friendly, occasionally intrusive.
Everyone wants to know your name, your country, and your age.
The
whistles and hisses, however, I could have done without. On the bright side,
being older appears to serve as an unexpected deterrent—a benefit I had not
previously considered.
Calicut
to Kannur - The Day India Stayed Home (93 km)
At
some point, no one told me, India went on strike.
This
had two immediate consequences:
The
roads were blissfully empty.
Absolutely
nothing was open.
It
was a cycling paradise combined with logistical inconvenience. I sped along
happily until I realised water might become an issue, at which point I
developed a sudden appreciation for the few roadside stands that remained open.
By
the time I reached Kannur, I was ready for food and rest. Thankfully, “room
service” here involves someone going out, buying food on your behalf, and
bringing it back, which feels less like a service and more like a deeply kind
favour.
I
ordered two meals, which confused the staff so much that they repeated the
order several times, possibly assuming I was feeding an unseen companion.
Kannur
to Kasaragod - Ferries, Forts, and the Toe That Developed a Personality (100
km)
The
day began with another ferry crossing, costing roughly the price of a polite
nod. These boats are staffed by multiple people and somehow remain incredibly
cheap, suggesting either an efficient system or a delightful disregard for
profit.
Later,
I encountered a railway crossing with no obvious solution. A man kindly offered
to carry my bicycle across the tracks—a generous gesture slightly compromised
by the realisation that the bicycle was heavier than expected.
Halfway
across, he appeared to reconsider his life choices.
I
encouraged him enthusiastically, mainly because I didn’t want him abandoning my
bicycle mid-railway.
I
stopped at Bekal Fort—massive, impressive, and entirely worth the visit—before
continuing to Kasaragod.
The
Toe (A Continuing Story)
And
now, an update on the toe.
Three
weeks after the incident, it had mostly healed—except for one small but
fascinating detail: when I curled my toes, the injured one pointed straight
upward like it was attempting to signal aircraft.
It
resembled, quite unmistakably, a rude gesture.
I
couldn’t decide whether to be concerned or impressed.
For
now, I chose to see it as a unique feature—one never knows when such a thing
might come in handy.
Midnight
Escapes, Pilgrims, and Beach Huts
Kasaragod
- A Night Best Forgotten
The
evening began with a room so questionable it felt less like accommodation and
more like a test of character.
The
door had three sliding locks, two of which had clearly retired from service.
When I politely inquired about safety, the staff assured me everything was fine
and moved me—helpfully—to a different room. Unfortunately, the new room managed
to be both less secure and less clean, which felt like a bold but unnecessary
achievement.
At
around 2 a.m., the situation escalated when I was awakened by shouting and the
sound of someone enthusiastically kicking a door—presumably a demonstration of
why the locks were decorative rather than functional.
At
this point, I made what I consider one of my better life decisions: I packed up
and left.
Cycling
through a dark, unfamiliar town at 3 a.m. is generally discouraged, but it felt
significantly safer than staying put. I eventually found a proper hotel—one
with delightful luxuries such as towels, sheets, and doors that behaved as
expected. Relief does not quite cover it.
Later
That Day – Camp 21 - Paradise Restored (40 km)
After
what felt like an entire day packed into a single night, I set off again and
soon discovered the restorative power of sugarcane juice—India’s unofficial
energy drink.
By
the time I reached Camp 21, a secluded beach with nipa huts and camping
options, I had no intention of going any further. It was peaceful, quiet, and
blissfully free of door-related anxiety.
I
parked my bike and decided this was exactly where I needed to be.
The
Case of the Missing Eclipse On to Udupi (72 km)
The
plan for the night was simple: watch a lunar eclipse.
The
reality was equally simple: no eclipse occurred.
Either
I had the wrong time, the wrong date, or perhaps the moon had simply declined
to participate. After waiting patiently, I gave up and went to bed, slightly
betrayed by astronomy.
I
was later woken by temple chanting, which, all things considered, was a far
more reliable experience.
Pilgrims,
Devotion, and My Limited Understanding
For
days, I had been noticing thousands of vehicles decorated with flowers and
flags, all heading in the same direction.
This,
I learned, was related to the Sabarimala pilgrimage—an event involving an
extraordinary number of devotees and an even more extraordinary set of rules,
including 41 days of discipline, vegetarianism, and abstinence.
The
sheer scale of it—millions of people participating—was difficult to grasp.
I
decided not to overthink it. India frequently presents situations that are too
vast, too complex, or too spiritual to fully understand in passing. It’s often
best to simply observe, nod thoughtfully, and continue cycling.
Udupi
– Where Everyone Has Already Arrived Before You
Arriving
in Udupi, I discovered that every single hotel room had already been booked.
Whether
this was due to the pilgrimage or simply unfortunate timing, I couldn’t say—but
it did give the town a lively, slightly frantic energy.
Eventually,
after some digital assistance from Booking.com, I found a room and decided to
stay an extra day. This allowed me to catch up on the usual travel
tasks—laundry, organisation, and general life maintenance, which never seems to
stay under control for long.
The
Sri Krishna Temple area was buzzing with activity, part spiritual gathering,
part lively evening carnival.
Murdeshwar
- Elevators and Enlightenment (103 km)
Leaving
Udupi, I entered Karnataka, where the landscape became slightly more undulating
but no less beautiful.
By
mid-afternoon, I reached Murdeshwar, a beachside pilgrimage town dominated by
an enormous statue of Shiva and an 18-storey temple tower.
Naturally,
I took the elevator to the top, as any spiritually curious but physically
practical traveller would. The views were spectacular, and the entire scene
felt both grand and slightly surreal—pilgrims, beaches, temples, and elevators
all coexisting quite happily.
Gokarna
- Sacred Meets Slightly Bohemian (78 km)
Gokarna
turned out to be a fascinating mix of sacred pilgrimage site and laid-back
beach destination.
On
one hand, pilgrims arrived to bathe in the ocean before visiting temples. On
the other hand, travellers—particularly European ones—had settled in for a more
relaxed spiritual experience involving beaches, cafés, and possibly less
discipline.
It
was an unlikely combination, but somehow it worked beautifully.
I
stayed two nights, which felt entirely justified.
Patnam
Beach - Boats, Bumpy Roads, and Another Strike (87 km)
The
day began with a road that promptly ended at a river—always an exciting
development.
Fortunately,
a small boat ferried people across, and after a moment of mutual curiosity, the
locals helped me transport my bicycle and bags without hesitation.
Further
along, I encountered yet another strike, which once again provided the familiar
combination of empty roads and zero food options.
Eventually,
I crossed into Goa, where civilization—more specifically, restaurants—returned.
Palolem
– Suddenly, Everyone Is Very Tanned and Relaxed
Palolem
felt like stepping into a completely different world.
Beach
huts lined the bay, restaurants served food at all hours, and there were—quite
suddenly—foreign tourists everywhere. So many, in fact, that I briefly had trouble
distinguishing one from another.
After
weeks of relative solitude, it was a slightly surreal adjustment.
I
found a beach hut at Micky’s, complete with bar, restaurant, and evening
entertainment, including an open-mic night that revealed an unexpectedly high
level of musical talent.
Staying
two nights required no deliberation whatsoever.
The
Shortest Move in History
Feeling
ready to move on, I cycled a grand total of 10 kilometres before discovering
Agonda Beach. Naturally, I stopped.
The
beach was lined with huts, shops, and colourful clothing that I very nearly
purchased in bulk before remembering that I was, in fact, travelling by bicycle
and had nowhere to put everything.
Instead,
I rented another hut and committed to a day of doing very little, which I
executed with great skill.
I
even attempted a short jog, during which I discovered that my toe—yes, that
toe—appeared to be functional again, though still not entirely trustworthy.
Panaji
- Hills and Mild Regret (80 km)
Leaving
Agonda took longer than expected—partly due to comfort, partly due to
reluctance.
The
ride to Panaji was hilly, which would have been fine if the final section
hadn’t been under construction, turning the road into a test of patience.
Panaji
itself was charming—laid-back, colourful, and distinctly Portuguese in style,
with narrow streets and bright colonial buildings.
Finding
accommodation, however, proved slightly more challenging, as the town seemed to
favour those with larger budgets than mine.
Eventually,
I found something suitable and settled in, ready—somewhat unbelievably—for
whatever came next.
Yoga, Buses of Doom,
and the Mystery of the Missing Navigator
Arambol
- A Civilised Beginning, Naturally (45 km)
Leaving
Panaji involved a ferry ride across the Mandovi River, which, in a pleasingly
modern twist, featured a floating casino. There is something deeply comforting
about gambling facilities following you across a body of water—it suggests a
certain commitment to entertainment.
I
stopped briefly at Aguada Fortress before continuing along what was once a
Portuguese coastal trade route, a stop that prompted a historical revelation.
It
turns out that Vasco da Gama—widely credited with discovering the sea route to
India—may have benefited quite significantly from the assistance of an unnamed
Indian navigator. This individual, who apparently played a crucial role in
guiding the expedition along the Kenyan coast, was not considered important
enough to be recorded in history.
This
struck me as both extraordinary and slightly annoying.
Imagine
helping someone achieve one of the greatest navigational feats in history, only
to be remembered as “Person Who Was There, Probably.”
Arambol
– Where One Plans to Stay Two Days and Accidentally Remains a While
Arambol
turned out to be one of those places where time becomes optional.
I
found a basic hut in the Peace Garden—a structure that generously included
something resembling a bathroom—and settled in.
My
initial plan was to stay for a couple of days.
Then
I signed up for a five-day yoga course.
This
is how these things happen.
Before
I knew it, “a few days” had expanded into something closer to a lifestyle.
Evenings were spent wandering along the beach, where aspiring musicians,
artists, and general enthusiasts displayed their talents in what felt like a
continuous, slightly improvised festival of creativity.
It
was chaotic, vibrant, and oddly addictive.
Waiting,
Online Shopping, and Fashion Experiments
At
some point, I made what I now consider a questionable decision: ordering
supplements online.
This
resulted in several days of waiting, checking, waiting again, and gradually
losing patience—all while staying in a beach hut that encouraged doing
absolutely nothing.
During
this time, I also found myself reflecting on the forehead markings commonly
seen in India—tilakas and bindis.
These
turned out to be both spiritually meaningful and aesthetically appealing. I
even experimented with the decorative, sparkly versions, which I wore with
enthusiasm and only mild concern about cultural appropriateness.
My
understanding of their significance, however, remained somewhat
approximate—sufficient for conversation, but not for examination.
Eventually,
Departure Happens
After
waiting a full week for my order—which finally arrived—I decided it was time to
leave my surprisingly comfortable hut and resume normal travel.
Reluctantly.
The Road
to Kankavli - Back to Reality (85 km)
Within
five kilometres of leaving Arambol, I found myself doing what I always do:
turning onto a small, intriguing road that seemed to promise adventure.
It
delivered hills.
Lots
of hills.
The
inland route was scenic but demanding, and by the end of the day I had sensibly
returned to the main road, where food, accommodation, and general survival were
more readily available.
I checked
into the River Lodge and experienced the rare joy of a proper hot shower after
weeks in beach huts.
It
was, quite frankly, transformative.
I
also caught sight of my reflection and was mildly alarmed by my own appearance,
which had apparently been declining without consultation.
Kankavli
to Rajapur - Hills, Kindness, and Strategic Retreat (55 km)
The
following day was defined almost entirely by hills.
The
Western Ghats, as it turns out, do not believe in subtle gradients.
Fortunately,
two friendly locals invited me to lunch—an omelette, a soft drink, and
water—which restored both energy and faith in humanity.
Shortly
afterwards, I made the wise decision to stop early, do laundry, and recover—an
increasingly common and sensible approach.
The
Bus to Kalhapur - How Not to Cycle a Mountain
On
this particular morning, I experienced what can only be described as a moment
of brilliance.
Standing
near a bus station, I suddenly thought: What if I didn’t cycle up the mountain?
Moments
later, I was sitting in a bus with my bicycle wedged beside me, heading toward
Kolhapur via a steep mountain pass.
What
followed was less a journey and more an experience.
The
road was narrow, partially intact, and shared with vehicles that appeared to
have only a passing interest in safety. The bus overtook anything slower than
itself—which was nearly everything—often without the benefit of seeing what was
coming.
I
held on. Firmly.
By
the time we descended at what felt like implausible speed, I was extremely
pleased not to be doing this on a bicycle.
Kolhapur
– Repairs, Markets, and Mild Chaos
Kolhapur,
noticeably off the tourist trail, responded to my presence with enthusiastic
curiosity.
Unfortunately,
things immediately began to malfunction.
My phone
holder failed. My pannier loosened. Accommodation proved difficult. Eventually,
I found a room that resembled a storage facility more than a place for human
habitation—but at this stage, practicality prevailed.
The
town itself, however, was delightful. Wandering through the market was a
highlight—vendors happily posing for photos, offering snacks, and ensuring I
didn’t miss anyone who wished to be included.
It
was chaotic, friendly, and full of life—the sort of experience that makes
everything else feel temporarily irrelevant.
Kolhapur
to Umbrai - A Palace and a Slightly Disturbing Museum (80km)
Before
leaving Kolhapur, I visited the New Palace, which featured a museum filled with
relics of royal hunting traditions.
This
included an alarming number of stuffed animals and photographs of the Maharajah
proudly posing with his… achievements.
It
was, to put it mildly, unsettling.
At
some point, one begins to question whether perhaps moderation might have been
an option.
Hills,
Headwinds, and Photography Failure (95 km)
The
road toward Pune was long, gently uphill, and accompanied by a persistent
headwind—three things that rarely combine to create joy.
To
add to the experience, I later discovered that my camera settings were
incorrect, resulting in a collection of beautifully overexposed photos of
absolutely nothing.
This
felt appropriate.
By
the end of the day, I selected a roadside hotel, accepted a bucket of hot water
in lieu of a proper shower, and enjoyed a well-earned meal.
Because,
in the end, no matter how chaotic the day has been, paneer masala and garlic
naan remain dependable constants in an ever-changing world.
Flat
Tyres, Haunted Forts, and a Slightly Regal Exit
On
to Pune - A Suspicious Flat and a Triumphant Tunnel (56 km)
The
day began with a mystery.
My
back tyre, which had been reassuringly solid the night before, was suddenly
flat. This raised questions—primarily whether I was dealing with a slow leak or
subtle sabotage.
Rather
than dismantle my entire life at the roadside, I opted for optimism: I pumped
the tyre and hoped for the best.
Remarkably,
it worked.
Lunch—or
what passes for lunch when one is under-fuelled and slightly concerned about
one’s tyre—consisted of Indian food, which I love dearly but isn’t always built
for endurance cycling. Fortunately, a roadside stop and a bottle of “Thumbs Up”
(an aggressively enthusiastic cola) brought me back to life just enough to
continue.
The
route to Pune involved a long uphill climb, so imagine my delight upon discovering
a tunnel that bypassed much of the suffering. Emerging on the other side, I was
greeted not by quiet countryside but by a sprawling cityscape of towering
high-rises, as if I had accidentally cycled into a futuristic experiment.
From
there, I descended at exhilarating speed, weaving through traffic with just
enough concentration to avoid becoming part of it.
Pune
– History, Reflection, and a Possible Ghost Situation
Pune
turned out to be unexpectedly charming.
The
next day began at the Aga Khan Palace, which serves both as a historical
landmark and a sobering reminder of India’s independence struggle. It was built
to provide employment during a famine and later used as a prison for Mahatma
Gandhi and his companions.
From
there, I visited the Pataleshwar Cave Temple—a structure carved directly into
the rock in the 8th century, though it was mysteriously left unfinished.
And
then things took a slightly darker turn.
Shaniwar
Wada Fort is widely considered haunted, which is never reassuring to learn
about after arriving. According to legend, the ghostly cries of a murdered
prince still echo through its walls, which is exactly the kind of historical
detail one could happily live without at dusk.
I
visited during the daytime, which felt like the right choice.
Ahmednagar
- Dust, Downhills, and Things Getting Ancient (121 km)
Leaving
Pune, I headed north toward the Ellora Caves—one of those places that sounds
impressive on paper and turns out to be genuinely astonishing in reality.
The
ride itself was dusty and unremarkable, though I did secure a rather grand
hotel room in Ahmednagar that was large enough to host a small gathering—or at
least an energetic dance routine if one were inclined.
The
following day improved dramatically.
Shortly
after leaving, the road dropped sharply, sending me flying downhill with
panniers flapping and spirits lifted. It was one of those rare cycling moments
where everything works perfectly.
Ellora
Caves – Or: How to Carve an Entire Mountain
The
Ellora Caves are, quite simply, extraordinary.
Describing
them as “caves” feels misleading, as these are vast temple complexes carved
meticulously from solid rock over several centuries by Hindu, Buddhist, and
Jain artisans.
The
scale is difficult to comprehend.
Take
the Kailasa Temple, for example—it was carved out of a single rock by thousands
of workers over roughly 150 years. It’s larger than expected, more detailed
than seems reasonably possible, and constructed with a level of planning that
would challenge even modern engineers.
Standing
there, one can’t help but feel slightly inadequate.
Transport
Adventures (Again)
Returning
from the caves involved a bus followed by a jeep ride.
The
bus was comfortable. The jeep was… less so.
At
one point, I counted 17 people squeezed inside, which suggests a deeply
flexible interpretation of capacity standards.
I
was relieved to have survived and disembarked.
The
Great Departure (Featuring Royal Treatment)
As
my visa required me to leave India every three months, it was time for a
temporary exit.
This
led to a carefully coordinated plan involving a visit to Thailand and a future
return to India for further adventures.
Before
leaving, I entrusted my bicycle to friends, which felt slightly like abandoning
a loyal companion, though a necessary one.
The journey to Alibag
involved a long bus ride to my friends Anil and Janhavi's place, where I could
leave my belongings. Once there I was generously fed to the point of near
incapacity, which is both a kindness and a logistical challenge.
My departure involved a
motorbike trip on the back of a Royal Enfield—always a good way to feel briefly
heroic—and a ferry to Mumbai’s Gateway of India.
A
Slightly Unexpected Upgrade to Royalty
My
final night involved staying with Janhavi’s family, where I was treated with
such generosity that I briefly reconsidered my usual travel standard of
“acceptable basic.”
The
next day, I was chauffeured to the airport, which gave me the distinct
sensation of having accidentally upgraded my life to a premium experience.
For
a moment, I felt like royalty.
The
flight departed on time, which felt like a fittingly smooth end to a journey
that had included illness, chaos, broken toes, and more than one questionable
night of accommodation.
Thailand
(A Brief Landing Back to Reality)
Arriving
in Thailand, everything suddenly felt efficient, calm, and slightly surreal.
Within
a short time, I was on a bus to Jomtien, collecting keys and settling into what
I rather dramatically referred to as my “emergency bunker,” awaiting my
sister’s arrival.
After
everything India had thrown at me—and everything it had given me—it felt both
strange and comforting to pause.
Epilogue
Leaving
India wasn't an ending; it was just a pause.
After
seventy-two days and 2,658 kilometres, the journey almost seemed complete on
paper, but not in experience. What remained was not the route itself, but its
fragments: moments of movement and stillness, small acts of kindness, stretches
of road that shaped the day without announcing themselves.
India
does not offer neat conclusions. It resists summary, leaving a heightened
awareness of how much lies beyond understanding—and a gradual comfort with that
instead.
In
the end, the journey became less about distance and more about adaptation—about
learning when to continue, when to stop, and when to allow events to unfold
without interference.
