India (2)
2 570 Kilometres - 72 Days
7 November 2015 – 22 January 2016
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Camel Fair
E-BOOK
7
November - Tamu, Myanmar – Moreh, Manipur, India
I
understood the Indian immigration office only opened at midday and thus felt no
rush to go anywhere. Around one o’clock, a short ride took me to the Myanmar-India
border and across the river into the state of Manipur, India. The immigration
office was roughly a kilometre further, but no one was in sight. Instead, officials
directed me to the police station in Moreh.
The
area was vastly different and reminded me more of Africa than India. The office
was stuck atop a stony hill, reached via a dirt track. I wrestled the bike up
the hill and once the formalities were done, ventured into the village and onto
Sangai Lodge.
In
this basic place, virtually all cyclists overnighted. The Sangai Lodge owner was
helpful and a mine of information. He further informed me that Manipur state was
considered one of the most dangerous. The state is an extremely mountainous
region, allegedly home to drug traffickers and guerrilla armies. I wasn’t sure
if this was indeed the case but chaotic it sure was.
Exploring
tiny Moreh was in a cloud of dust and amidst busses, tuk-tuks and people in
lungis pushing and shoving hand-drawn carts. It’s a scene that could take just about
anyone by surprise. But, on the other hand, the usual things done upon entering
a new country, like changing money and buying a SIM card, was surprisingly
uncomplicated.
The
plan was to get to Delhi ASAP and bike to Pushkar to catch the famous Pushkar
Camel Fair. Although I wasn’t keen to use public transport, this event was not
to be missed and the principal reason for my second visit to India.
8
November - Moreh – Imphal - by Taxi
It’s
hard to describe India. The country is vast and varied and the state of Manipur
is uniquely different. In addition, the area is tribal and villagers looked distinctly
Mongolian.
Nothing
in India happens instantly. Even though my host at the Sangai Lodge arranged a “taxi”
to take me to Imphal, where busses ran to Guwahati, nothing happened until
midday. No sooner were we underway than I regretted not cycling. The state of
Manipur is fascinating, but I had to choose between biking and the Camel Fair.
It’s
no secret I love India. Countries, to me, are like people. They’ve
personalities of their own, and (for no rhyme or reason) one gets along with some
and not others. Of course, there’s no perfect country, but I feel more at home
in certain ones than others. India is chaotic, dirty, dusty and busy. Still, it
has a huge personality and I felt a veil of spirituality cloaked the entire country.
However, the driving was nothing short of madness. Still, we, against all odds,
arrived in Imphal unscathed.
9-10
November - Imphal – Guwahati - by bus
Leg
two consisted of a bus ride to Guwahati. The Guwahati bus was rumoured to depart
at 10h30, but the time was 11h30 when we finally got going. The road over the
mountains was in such a poor condition I believed it was quite possible to pick
up an injury. Thank goodness for winter, as the bus was ancient and had no
aircon. As predicted, the ride was dusty as the way was only partially paved. The
driver drove non-stop, stopping simply when one of the passengers wanted to pee
and twice to replace a punctured tire. Signboards indicated the speed limit at
20 km/h and the going was dreadfully slow.
It
was genuinely remarkable how tribal the people in the mountain regions were.
They didn’t merely look Mongolian, with their round faces and rosy cheeks, but were
dressed in red, blanket-like shawls. They further carried their wares in woven
baskets upon their backs, hanging from straps around their foreheads. Now and
then, I had the urge to tell the driver to let me off as I was dreadfully sorry
for missing out on cycling this fascinating part of India. A person is far
removed from the land and the people on a bus, especially when used to travelling
by bicycle.
I
must’ve lapsed into a slumber as I woke with a start and found myself in
Guwahati. I stumbled off the bus and, somewhat disorientated, rode into the
city. Once showered, a short amble brought me to the train station to buy a Delhi
ticket. The rules required the bike and panniers
to be booked beforehand, and all forms were completed in triplicate. (It must
be a leftover from colonial times.). Although the luggage fee was more than my
ticket, the fare remained a bargain.
Returning
to my abode, I marvelled at all India is. A place where milk tea is brewed on
street corners and where kids play cricket on each grassy patch. Cricket
matches were cheered on enthusiastically by onlookers (one could even get a
haircut while watching the game), and friendly homeless people occupied the
sidewalks. Enjoying an authentic roti served smothered in curry sauce at a
sidewalk eatery, a remarkable calm came over me and I felt 100% at home.
The
final leg of my public transport was in sight. The train was due at 6h15 the
following morning, and the reception desk promised to wake me at 5h00. Still, it
didn’t mean it would happen. This was, after all, India.
11-12
November - Guwahati – Delhi by train
Surprisingly,
my phone rang at 5h00, I hurriedly showered and then trundled to the train
station. A quick check on the bicycle and panniers revealed they were already at
Platform 7. Unfortunately, delays made for a long wait before the train finally
arrived.
As
anticipated, the train was basic and appeared not cleaned since built, likely
in the 1950s. But, at least having a reserved seat, meant one didn’t have to
run and jump onto a moving train.
Being
the sole foreigner, it felt as if a steady stream of onlookers came to witness
this unusual event and get a closer look at the stranger in their midst. At first,
the plan was to use the time to edit a few pictures, but passengers crowded
around to such an extent, I gave up. Privacy and personal space are different
in all countries.
At
stations, vendors hopped onboard selling tea, samosas, boiled chickpeas, water,
etc. People subsequently threw their used cups and plates (not paper plates, but
used newspaper) out the window, but I couldn’t get myself to follow suit. Seeing
I kept mine, they must’ve considered me weird or a hoarder.
Lunch
was chickpeas (or channa), and my every move was watched with great interest. I
couldn’t help but giggle when my fellow travellers kindly fabricated a scoop from
the newspaper so the foreigner could eat. Little English was spoken and, now and
again, “foreigner, foreigner” could be heard, followed by wide-eyed faces
peeping around corners. The people in my berth felt it their duty to care for me
and guarded my stuff when I wandered about. Train staff came around to take dinner
orders and I secretly wished they would be kind enough to provide a spoon as I
wasn’t good at eating with my fingers.
My
assumption that bedding would be provided was incorrect. Mercifully, a fellow
traveller lent the ill-advised foreigner a blanket.
12
November - Delhi
The
train arrived in Delhi at around 8 p.m. and, lovely as the people were, I was
more than happy to disembark and be away from the staring eyes. My bike or bags
weren’t anywhere in sight and I made my way to the parcel office (an experience
in itself). Already dark, it took wading my way through muddy puddles, rail
tracks, past stray dogs and goods stacked sky-high, but the bicycle wasn’t
there either. I decided it was best to locate accommodation and collect the
bike and panniers in the morning.
At
the best of times, Delhi is an over-commercialised madhouse and even more so when
arriving in the dark. Due to Diwali celebrations, making my way along Main
Bazaar Road was in a sea of light. It must’ve been around 9 or 10 p.m. and the streets
were as busy as peak hours in any megacity. The difference was the road was congested
with bicycle rickshaws, tuk-tuks, pedestrians and cows.
I
sauntered past vendors selling curry and roti, beggars and scrawny-looking kids
who quickly asked for handouts. Finally, a bed was found at Namaskar Hotel and I
could’ve sworn it was the hotel I stayed at in 2008.
13-16
November - Delhi
Waking
with a sore throat and blocked nose wasn’t surprising following the train ride,
and I searched for vitamin C and my bike—both of which were easily located. The
short ride from the train station to my hotel reminded me of how trying cycling
in India could be.
Feeling
downright rotten, the following day was spent in bed nursing a thick head and
sore body. I couldn’t afford getting the flu as my time to reach the Pushkar
Camel Fair was running out fast. The air quality in Delhi is extremely poor and
I hadn’t seen the sun in days. Still, it made for interesting pictures.
Even
walking to the chemist was an experience. With India’s open garbage system,
stray dogs, monkeys, pigs, rats, and cows scavenged whatever they could find to
survive. It’s particularly harmful to the cows as they have a complex digestive
system, and plastic bags never get expelled. Over time, the plastic accumulates
inside the cow’s stomach and becomes hard as stone, resulting in death. Add to
the above kids acting as trapeze artists while balancing clay pots upon their
heads made me realise this was indeed India.
The
flu tablets didn’t make much difference, and I resorted to the corner
herbalist. I had no energy to go sightseeing and stayed close to the hotel, simply
emerging to grab a bite to eat and get water. The “’erbs” did the job and I soon
felt heaps better. (This, of course, could’ve been due to natural causes.)
My
Garmin GPS couldn’t load the free Indian map from Open Street Map, which
required buying a Garmin map (at a hefty price). Unfortunately, this pricy map didn’t
load either, and I was understandably a tad peeved. Following an email to
Garmin’s head office, they conveniently passed me off to another department
which advised me to contact my (South African) branch. I had little patience
for such incompetence and instead located Garmin’s head office in Delhi. I
elbowed through the crowds, trying to avoid cow dung, dog shit, and human
excrement. Once there, staff members tried their best to load the map, but the
process was incredibly slow. Finally, we agreed to leave it overnight and I
would pick it up in the morning. Darryl, a fellow cyclist, was a fun person at
the hotel, and we had a few beers together.
17-20
November - Delhi – Pushkar by car
It
was 17 November before departing Delhi by car to Puskar. We first swung by the
Garmin office to pick up the GPS, but they couldn’t load the map either. Hopefully,
this would be my last public transport in India, as I was itching to get going.
Finally,
Pushkar was reached, and what an unusual place. Being a holy town, virtually
all Hindus will visit the town at least once during their lifetime. No beer or
meat is sold in the city, but I’m sure one can find it if you wish. A holy lake
forms the centre of town, and it’s said to have appeared when Brahma dropped a
lotus flower. Featuring more than 50 bathing ghats and hundreds of temples,
constant drumming and chanting filled the air. Sleeping in was no option due to
gongs, drums and chanting starting around five in the morning—a blessing as I
wanted to get up early to catch the morning light.
The
famous camel fair is where Rajasthan’s people come to show, auction, and buy
the best camels and horses the area offers. The outskirts of Pushkar were a sea
of camels and a place where traders lived in makeshift tents. Still, a festive
mood prevailed. Kids ran about wanting their pictures taken, and men sat on
their haunches in serious bargaining conversations. I was impressed by the
horsemanship and horse trainers. It was quite impressive what they could make
the animal do. These desert horses' distinctive features are their ears curving
in, practically touching.
Taking
pictures of all that was happening was trying, as the event was considerably more
substantial than I anticipated. The place was swarming with people, camels, and
horses—getting a clear shot of anything was quite an achievement. Feeling out
of my league amongst the countless professional photographers, staying out of their
way was made possible by slinking around the back.
Vendors
lined the route to the fairground selling all kinds of horse and camel
paraphernalia, as well as anything traders could need, from bedrolls to
barbers. However, whatever was for sale seemed to cater only to men, even while
many women formed part of the fair. It looked like women remained second-class
citizens, as they were the dung collectors and chapati makers. It was
understood barely 50% of Rajasthan women are educated. The state has the most
significant education gap between men and women in India.
Aside
from the traders and photographers, hordes of travellers filled this small town.
The
camel fair (I soon discovered) was merrily a sideshow to the real deal. The
main event is Kartik Purnima, which refers to when the pilgrims come to dip in
the sacred lake of Pushkar. The town was noisy and crowded, and the narrow thoroughfare
was crammed with tourists, pilgrims and beggars. I quite liked the madness of
it all. Then there were the bizarre - from the limbless sporting begging bowls
to snake charmers and five-legged calves. It felt like all one needed to make a
few bucks were a begging bowl and a spot outside the temple (it did cross my
mind to get a bowl!). This was indeed the event of the year.
21
November - Pushkar – Beawar - 90 km (approx.)
As
unique as Pushkar was, I had itchy feet and wanted to get going. Getting out of
Pushkar was no easy task, especially trying to avoid the main road to Ajmer. My
path ended on a sandy track that required retracing my steps. Ultimately, it must’ve
led me in a vast circle, as what should’ve been a short day turned into a
whole-day affair. I, sadly, lost my odometer but guessed the distance at around
90 kilometres.
Almost
being robbed three times during the day made me realise Rajasthan wasn’t safe. Using
minor roads to avoid the congested highway was clearly a mistake.
The
first incident involved three guys on a motorbike waiting along a particularly
lonely stretch. I intuitively knew trouble was brewing, and on reaching them,
the one grabbed the handlebars. He then (quick as lightning) grabbed my phone
(in the handlebar holder) but, mercifully, dropped it and then sped off.
The
second incident involved a middle-aged man who grabbed hold of the bike. I’m
not sure what he wanted, but he had an axe, and best not to argue. He pointed
to the front wheel; I wasn’t sure if he wanted the wheel, an inner tube, or the
bicycle. He then indicated taking a photo. Unsure if he wanted me to take a picture
or the camera, I told him I had no camera. He let go of the bike and I sped off
as fast as possible.
During
the third incident, a woman appeared from nowhere and started hitting me on my
back with her hand. Maybe she was mentally ill or wanted something, but I didn’t
stop. Afterwards, I followed a bicycle vendor and stuck close to him to Beawar.
A good thing too, as he chased away a few persistent followers.
No
doubt it was a relief to reach Beawar. Finding accommodation was more
troublesome as all rooms were full due to wedding ceremonies. Maybe they weren’t
licenced to house foreigners. Eventually, the Hotel Shree made good enough digs
and a place to close the door behind me. Phew, what a day.
22
November - Beawar – Pali - 120 km
Although
a different route was planned, I considered it best to follow the larger road.
Albeit a toll road, bicycles were allowed, and the road was surprisingly quiet (for
India, that is). Highways never made enjoyable riding, but the preceding day's
stress was something I could do without.
The
area was a typical barren desert landscape featuring equally barren mountains.
Only a few goats grazed in the distance and a few forlorn plastic bags blew in
the wind. I put my head down and pushed onwards to Pali past numerous dhabas selling
basic food (often simply one or two dishes) and chai (tea). These dhabas were merely
mud structures sporting cots to sit or lie upon. No woman ever frequented these
dhabas as there appeared only men. It felt uncomfortable going into these
places as all stopped eating and they never took their eyes off me. Drinking
chai and being observed at such close range is somewhat nerve-wracking.
At
least the area was littered with water shelters. Like nearly all desert areas,
clay urns were placed under covered canopies. It’s amazing how cool the water stays
in these clay pots. At these stands was always a communal mug dangling from a
string which people used without touching their lips, a skill I never acquired.
23
November - Pali – Sumerpur - 85 km
I
didn’t feel like cycling but packed up and pedalled out of Pali. It turned out
a typical day in Rajasthan; dry and dusty as I biked past goat herders and
women in colourful saris tending fields. Many called me to have chai and others
stopped to ask where I was going, but my experience of a few days ago was still
fresh in my mind and I didn’t stop.
Calling
it quits in Sumerpur, which sported lodging along the main road, made it a
short day. Around midnight, one almighty racket erupted in the street below. It
must’ve been a festival of sorts as a parade went by accompanied by music so
loud it didn’t only wake me but shook the building and furniture. I kid you
not!
24
November - Sumerpur – Sirohi - 45 km
Leaving
Sumerpur was amidst camel carts and scavenging cows. Reaching Sirohi, a
formidable mountain loomed ahead, and lacking the mental strength to continue I
called it a day.
25
November - Sirohi – Abu Road - 73 km
The
next day nothing came of the daunting-looking mountains. Instead, the road
weaved through valleys and soon spat me out on the other side of the mountain.
During the ride, I met Ashish Pali and his two kids en route to Mount Abu to participate
in a festival. We chatted briefly, and he gave me his contact details in case I
needed assistance. How sweet of him?
At
first, the plan was to go up the mountain, but feeling lazy the afternoon was
spent chilling out.
26
November - Abu Road – Mehsana - 121 km
Before
departing, I had tea and crustless toast; I guessed it was a leftover from
colonial times. The day became effortless riding though not overly exciting (being
a highway). That said, riding through rural areas, little frequented by
foreigners, I scared the living daylight out of kids. They ran for the safety
of their mother’s hems, only to peek out once safely tucked behind her apron or
sari. Of course, one can’t blame them as they’ve most likely never seen a white
woman on a bicycle.
On
this day, my route left the state of Rajasthan and entered little-explored Gujarat.
It was officially a dry state and to buy alcoholic drinks one needed a permit which
could be obtained from the larger hotels, but I lacked the motivation to try.
27
November - Mehsana – Ahmedabad – 70 km
The
stretch between Mehsana and Ahmedabad made it a short but stressful ride. The
way wasn’t too busy but reaching the city centre amidst Ahmedabad’s 6,600,000 population
and finding accommodation in the horrendous traffic was challenging.
Shabbier,
a sweet tuk-tuk driver, pointed me in the direction of the Stayinn Hotel, which
turned out inexpensive and centrally located, exactly what I was looking for.
28-29
November - Ahmedabad
Ahmedabad
had been inhabited since the 11th century and thus had an old part
with much to investigate. An early morning walking tour of the ancient city was
considered money well spent.
India
is a country steeped in tradition and history, and kite fighting is a popular
contest. However, fighter kites are slightly different from the usual kites as
they are traditionally small single-line flat kites where line
tension alone is used for control. The main difference is lines are typically
coated with glass fibre cotton strands to cut down the line of other
competitors. I was thus thrilled to come upon people coating the lines.
Later,
Shabbier picked me up, and we set out to the impressive Adalaj’s step-well—a
5-story deep step-well built in 1498 by King Mohammed Begda for Queen Rani
Roopba.
Legend
has it a Hindu ruler was attacked by King Mohammed Begda, the neighbouring
kingdom's ruler. The king was killed, and his widow (though in deep grief at
her husband's death) agreed to marry King Mahmud Begada. She agreed on the
condition he first completed the step-well her husband began. The new king,
deeply in love with the queen, agreed and built the well in record time. Once
the well was completed, the king reminded the queen of her promise. Instead,
the queen, who had achieved her objective of completing the step-well, decided
to end her life as a mark of devotion to her husband. She circumambulated the
step-well, prayed and then jumped into the well. These events are depicted on the
walls of the well. (People were incredibly dramatic in those days.)
Ahmedabad
is further home to the Sabarmati Ashram, Gandhi’s headquarters from 1917–1930
during the struggle for Indian independence. He chose this site as the land was
between a jail and a cemetery, and it was said anyone in favour of independence
was bound to end up in one of them. It’s from here that Gandhi commenced his
famous Salt March. Reading the history, I once again realised there’s nothing
worse than colonialism. How anyone can think such arrogance is a good idea
boggles the mind.
Outside
was a statue of Gandhi’s three proverbial wise monkeys: “See no evil, hear no
evil, speak no evil”. They are Mizaru, covering his eyes; Kikazaru, covering
his ears; and Iwazaru, covering his mouth.
Later,
I came upon the Kalam Kush paper mill. The mill uses a Gandhian technique where
the paper is made by hand using off-cuts from fabric. It’s understood all
government offices (at least in Ahmedabad) use paper from this mill. I hope
this is true; wouldn’t it be marvellous?
Shabbier
picked me up the following morning and we swung by the supermarket before
visiting Gulbai Tekra, a small slum known as ‘Hollywood Basti’ because of the
women’s colourful clothing. Gulbai Tekra is home to over 1,000 families making
a living out of carving Ganesh statues. Here villagers were keen to get their
pictures taken. Some women veiled their faces using their dupattas, barely revealing
their traditional nose-rings, but others boldly posed. In the process, we got
caught up in a funeral procession. We were welcomed into their midst and didn’t
get away without getting a bindi.
Later,
I moseyed past homeless families living on the pavement and considered it not
such a bad life after all. They were extraordinarily well-organised, with a
clock hanging from the wall and space to hang items. A few had beds and kitchen
utensils. What impressed me were the kids doing school homework. Multiplication
tables were neatly written out in a notebook.
30
November – 1 December - Ahmedabad – Vadodara - 115 km
My
route followed Gandhi’s Salt March, known as the Dandi March, and I met several
pilgrims en route to Dandi. Stopping for tea, I was asked if I was from China. By
evening, I had a good look at myself as never in a million years had I imagined
I even remotely resembled a Chinese person.
When
biking in India, one is immersed in a world of overwhelming and unparalleled
bombardment of the senses, from the constant hooting, dust and vehicle fumes,
to the incense-filled air and peaceful chanting of Hindu devotees. I rode past
dead animals rotting in the heat of the tropics, and in contrast, people
playing cricket upon immaculate green fields, past incredibly ornate Hindu
temples and homeless people living on the street. Friendly rickshaw wallas and tea
sellers asked, “What’s your country?” followed by “What’s your good name?” Motorcycle
riders pulled up next to me, asking for selfies. A big grin crossed my face, as
I knew this was indeed India.
The
following day was spent in Vadodara as the town sported a few attractions worth
seeing. After breakfast, the search for a lens cap was on in all earnest. The
process was both time-consuming and exciting, but not a great deal was achieved
in the end.
2–3
December - Vadodara – The Tri-Temple Complex - 135 km
My
early-ish departure was due to the desire to escape the morning traffic. Luckily,
things didn’t get busy until around 10h00, making it an uncomplicated cycle out
of Vadodara. A highway never offers exciting riding, but this one sported a spacious
shoulder. A shoulder used primarily by vehicles heading in the opposite
direction, and I had to keep an eye out for oncoming traffic. Even though a
toll road, ox carts, camel carts, trucks, busses, cars and tuk-tuks all headed
south into the ever-present haze.
Ironically,
while India was choking silently, half of parliament attended the Climate
Change meeting in France. Stopping to have a cup of tea or to fill my water
bottle, a crowd curiously inspected the bicycle. They looked and debated and
then concluded the solar charger was to charge the bike! Someone even suggested
my water bottle was petrol as surely a woman needed help carrying such a heavy
load.
The
highway made for easy riding, and I pushed on until the turn-off to Surat. Enquiring
about lodging (the word ‘hotel’ generally refers to a restaurant), directions
were toward a temple, which turned into an intriguing evening.
The
Tri-Temple Complex was a non-denominational and non-sectarian complex for the
welfare and well-being of the entire world. A bed came at a mere INR100 and food
at an additional INR30. The brochures offered made intriguing reading. I found
the importance and power of the Trinity fascinating as virtually all religions
have a three of something. Although, mostly, the information was over my head, still,
it made intriguing reading.
The
following day was spent reading the remainder of the brochures. “Adjust
Everywhere” was fascinating. Maybe it was my thinking of adjusting yourself
instead of expecting the world and others to conform to you. However, when
looking at social media, many expect society to change to accept them. Each to
their own.
4
December - The Tri-Temple Complex – Navsari - 40 km
Not
feeling well, I still packed up and left the temple. Checking out, the temple
wanted no money, but the donation box was made for discreet donations. Staying
an additional day might’ve been a better choice as I had a severe case of Delhi
belly. There’s no fun in cycling whilst vomiting and constantly searching for a
bush to hide behind.
Forty
kilometres further was the town of Navsari, which sported a luxury hotel at
INR1,350 per night (approximately $20). Not caring about the money, I booked in
and was overwhelmed to learn they wanted no payment. Overhearing them say
something about many years of cycle touring I wondered how they knew. How
awesome is that? I couldn’t be happier as I showered and flopped onto a large,
comfortable bed. The rest of the day was spent between the bathroom and the
bed.
5
December - Navsari - Valsad - 60 km
Still
not 100%, I thanked the owner for his hospitality and continued south. After
about 60 kilometres of riding, fatigue set in but, fortunately, Valsad came
into view, making it a good place to call it quits.
6
December - Valsad – Manor - 109 km
Sometimes
it feels like all things go wrong simultaneously. Wanting to pump the tyres, I discovered
the bicycle pump was broken, aarrgghh! Fortunately, a bicycle wallah appeared and
pumped the tyres and, at the same time, placed a few drops of oil on the chain.
Pedalling
out of town was in the company of water buffalo and cows. A signboard indicated
one lane for cars, one for trucks, and one for heavy vehicles. Albeit no
mention was made of the water buffalo and cows. At least someone tried to make order
out of this chaos.
My
path led past the “cricket-bat slum”; it seemed slums specialised in specific
trades. If one needed a bat, this was the place. You could even get it
personalised or decorated by your favourite cricketer. Later, a chemist provided
nausea and diarrhoea medication. Never knock the drug companies. They make
wonderful stuff at a pittance and after handing over INR65, I felt considerably
better.
Not
feeling too energetic, I grabbed a Coke and a Red Bull. A concoction that made
me fly toward Mumbai, only stopping once before reaching Manor. Mumbai was roughly
110 kilometres away, making Manor a perfect overnight stop.
7-12
December - Manor – Mumbai - 115 km
The
time was shortly past nine o'clock before getting away. The day started
promising until roughly 50 kilometres outside Mumbai city centre. The traffic was
hectic, and I truly feared for my life. The only thing one could do was go with
the flow as best as possible.
Once
in the city, I headed to Colaba, the old part of the town famous among backpackers.
The touts drove me crazy, insisting I follow them. Of course, it’s their job,
but still it irritated me, as I was tired after a stressful day in Mumbai’s heavy
traffic.
Uncovering
Bentley’s Hotel was by chance and, surprisingly, where I had stayed five years
prior. Lo and behold, would the guy at reception not ask: “Have you not stayed
here before?” Surely, he must say that to everyone, as I considered it
impossible he could remember me. In any event, a spot in one of their other
buildings was even cheaper, plus the room was massive and on the ground floor
where one could easily wheel the bike right in.
From
Mumbai, I had no idea which direction to go. Having already cycled the rest of
India, the initial plan was to ride the stretch between Delhi and Mumbai as, unfortunately,
that stretch was missed during my first trip due to a broken arm. No wonder the
guy remembered me as I arrived sporting a broken arm and a black eye, left the
bicycle at the hotel, and disappeared a few weeks only to reappear later. I could
follow the same route south and meet Rachel and Patrick, who were heading north
or across the country to Bangladesh.
My
laptop packed up and was handed in to be repaired. Thank goodness they could
fix it but what a mission to re-install the whole caboodle. It took the best
part of the night to reload the necessary programs.
13
December - Mumbai – Alibag - 20 km
Eventually,
a short pedal led to the harbour where ferries operated across Thane Creek to
Mandva. Departing Mumbai for the south coast, or getting into Mumbai from the
south, is made effortless by this immensely convenient 16-kilometre (60 minutes)
ferry ride. The ride saved one from biking through Mumbai’s hectic city traffic.
The crossing was busy as loads of ferries were coming and going, some a tad
overloaded and leaning precariously.
Shortly
after stepping off the jetty at Mandva, I met Ashish Agashe, a cyclist from
Mumbai. He was a journalist and a keen cyclist who had cycle-toured India extensively.
Ashish introduced me to his brother Anil, his brother’s wife Janhavi, and their
young son Abhinav, who lived in Alibag. Ashish was visiting for the weekend and
I was invited to stay the night. Not merely was it a pleasure but also
fascinating to stay in a family home.
The
family was of no specific religion but realists and highly concerned about the
poor and our carbon footprint. This all made for an insightful and fascinating
conversation. I was further introduced to Sumit Pali, India’s famous endurance
cyclist. By endurance cycling, I mean an astonishing 400 kilometres a day! The
best part was meeting a whole host of kind and fascinating people. I’ve
remained friends with some until now, if simply via social media.
14-15
December - Alibag – Murud - 50 km
Chatting
with Janhavi, the time was past 10h00 a.m. before leaving Alibag. Konkan Coast
seemed unchanged from my first cycle around India a few years earlier. The road
remained rough and narrow, and the short steep hills still prevailed. Nevertheless,
the area provided rural cycling through timeless villages, past markets and
villagers drying produce upon the tarmac.
It’s
hard to believe this undeveloped coastline still exists, a mere 50-70
kilometres south of Mumbai's busy and large metropolis. By evening, the sunset
over the Arabian Sea made me smile, as it had been a long time since leaving
the ocean in Thailand. The December weather was perfect, and mobile food carts appeared
at sunset. I located a chair, ordered the local cuisine, and was content to watch
a game of beach cricket.
By
morning, fishermen brought in their catch while school kids continued their
cricket game of the previous evening. Observing the comings and goings of this
small village while sipping my sweet chai was pure pleasure. All this occurred as
some villagers did their morning ablutions at the water's edge; this truly is
amazing India!
In
the end, sleepy Murud made staying one more day as I was operating in low gear
and had no destination in mind. However, an amble along the ocean to the market
made me check carefully where to place my feet. The little fish market was a
hive of activity, offering heaps of tiny fish and shrimp. Surely, catching such
large quantities of juvenile fish will soon leave the ocean depleted of life.
16
December - Murud – Harihareshwar - 52 km
Shortly
after departing, a ferry operated across a river, making it a far shorter day. From
time to time, the way was narrow and uneven, but it remained a pleasure to
cycle. Monkeys playfully darted across the path and, in contrast to cities, one
could smell frangipani and sandalwood. From temples came the sweet smell of
incense and, occasionally, the lovely aroma of the good ’erb wafted across the
road. The coastal route is hilly, and I encountered a few hills.
Harihareshwar,
a beachside temple town, came with a lively touristy trade. The structures were,
however, unimpressive for such a famous temple. The temple is dedicated to
Kalbhairav, a manifestation of Lord Shiva. Today the temple, built in the 18th
century, houses an ancient Shiva Linga adding to its popularity.
The
staff at my abode seemed quite taken that a foreigner chose their hotel. Looking
out the window and straight into the neighbour’s water buffalo shed didn't come
as a surprise. All night one could hear buffalo stomping, snorting and chewing
the cud; a surprisingly soothing sound.
17
December - Harihareshwar – Harnai - 61 km
Breakfast
was from a lady who needed to go into the backyard to do the dishes and stoke
the fire. She returned with an omelette and chapatti. Sometimes, even having
breakfast could be an adventure.
Four
kilometres past Harihareshwar a ferry took people across the river to the town
of Vesavi. Then, a “push-up-the-hill” road led to a coastal path that soon
reached another ferry crossing. This time, it was a tiny boat and a mission to
get the bike and the panniers on board, but the ride saved a detour of nearly
40 kilometres via the busy main road.
One
minute the path was next to the ocean, and the following up in the hills,
through small communities where markets spilt onto the road. Then along narrow
farm roads where ox carts had preference and villagers stared slack-jawed. I
didn’t want it any other way. Finally, reaching the third ferry, the road bridge
seemed better than loading the whole shebang onto the tiny boat.
The
way continued past the smallest hamlets where villagers dried clothes and
shrimp upon the tarmac. My path soon reached the small settlement of Harnai,
famous for its colourful fishing harbour, and a great place to spend the night.
18
December - Harnai – Guhagar - 90 km
Due
to the previous night’s tossing and turning, the time was nearly midday before pedalling
out of Harnai. My chosen route followed the coastal road via Karde. The road,
however, petered out and later disappeared altogether, forcing me to retrace my
steps. The rest of the day was a hilly ride, albeit not difficult, the sharp
inclines made it slow riding. Few things are as enjoyable as following secondary
roads through tiny settlements; on this day, they were plentiful.
These
tiny roads seldom had bridges across rivers. Fortunately, this time a car ferry
carted traffic across the river—the price for me and the bike was a measly 16
rupees. Unfortunately, the path from the jetty to the highway revealed a steep
switchback, leaving me huffing and puffing. However, the rest of the day was enjoyable
cycling.
19-20
December - Guhagar – Ratnagiri - 100 km
Breakfast
consisted of spicey idly and tea, and it was 9h30 by the time I got going. The
plan was to follow the shore, but each person I encountered told me no path existed
and it was best to follow the inland route. Both my GPS and Google Maps
indicated a path along the ocean. Still, I didn’t want to repeat the same
mistake as the previous day and instead listen to local knowledge.
The
inland route was further and hillier than the coastal road, making it slow
riding. No one mentioned the four kilometres uphill, which soon called for an
Eno-stop as a breakfast of fried chillies and uphill don’t go well together. Still,
the way was rural India at its absolute best. Women doing laundry in a stream
and men wearing the dhoti made colourful pictures.
Although
not a challenging route, the ride was a slow one through a sparsely populated
area, to such an extent I ran out of water and had to flag down a truck to ask
if they had water to spare. A few kilometres further, a roadside stall sold
freshly made lemonade. One glass was gulped down and another poured into my
water bottle. At last, the road descended, but five kilometres from Ratnagiri was
the mother of all hills. Phew! The road was so steep it required walking the
bike. Not something I needed at the end of a day of cycling.
Two
days were spent in Ratnagiri not doing a great deal, except internet stuff and
long overdue laundry.
21
December - Ratnagiri – Devgad - 100 km
December
weather in India is most pleasant as it isn’t humid but still around 30/33˚C,
making it perfect cycling weather. Saying that doesn’t mean one didn’t sweat
buckets. The route wasn’t overly exciting and it was best to push onward to
Devgad. Still, it remained “hilly an’ all”, as they say in India.
There
was not a great deal one can do but put the bike in an easy gear and peddle on.
The “TOD” signs painted upon the tarmac (presumed a bicycle race) kept me
occupied. When they said “push”, I pushed, and when they said, “slow down,” I
slowed down. Reaching Devgad indicated the end of the day's ride.
22-23
December - Devgad – Malvan - 50 km
The
day began as usual, having breakfast at a local joint. On entering, the entire
place generally came to a complete standstill. One had two choices: you could
ignore it, sit down, order the food, eat, leave, and pretend no one noticed; or
you could say a loud “good morning”, smile and let them discuss among
themselves where you’re from, how old you are, and where you were going. This
morning I opted for the latter.
The
day turned into one of those crazy days as a guy on a motorbike overtook me and
stopped a little further. This simple and innocent action typically spells
trouble. This day was no different and I found him masturbating by the side of
the road. I continued cycling, but he soon came past and once again stopped right
ahead. Flagging down a tuk-tuk, and pointing at the wanker made him disappear.
Roughly
30 or 40 kilometres later, my bicycle suddenly came to a complete halt. I couldn’t
turn the pedals, and the shifters didn’t respond. Finally, trying to loosen
things up, a friendly couple on a motorbike stopped and attempted to free the
chain from where it was lodged. Eventually, they flagged down a truck en route to
Malvan. Upon reaching Malvan, we stopped at the bicycle mechanic. Once the
bicycle was offloaded, everything was in perfect working order! What a strange
day.
24
December - Malvan – Arambol - 80 km
In
2008, I pedalled this route accompanied by my sister, Amanda. She, at the time,
claimed she had to walk her bike up six hills in the space of 25 kilometres. Although
not quite that bad, the route crossed nearly that number of valleys where the
road descended sharply to the river and climbed steeply out of it. Foreseeing a
gentler descent to the beach, the equally hilly approach road to Arambol was an
unpleasant surprise.
Arambol,
a favourite amongst Europeans since the early ’60s, remains a laidback hippy
town. Pulling into Arambol was thus a tad of a culture shock as there was white
people everywhere. The place swarmed with scooter-driving Europeans, decked out
in their feathery earrings, flowy Indian cotton dresses, and bandanas—it was time
to don the feathery earrings and flowy dress and hang out in Arambol for a
while.
25-27
December - Arambol
Life
in Arambol was easy; most days were spent on the beach or walking along the
cliffs. In the evenings, I sipped coffee or beer at one of the beach
restaurants.
In
the process, I overheard a conversation where people were swapping travel
stories and I giggled at the comment, “…and at one time there wasn’t even any
internet.” Adventure travel has taken on a whole new meaning! More remarkable
was people-watching; Indian women customarily swim fully clothed, in stark
contrast to the Europeans in skimpy swimwear.
28
December – 4 January 2016 - Arambol
Hanging
about made me enrol in a five-day Iyengar Yoga course, and I was excited to do
something different. The course was far pricier than anticipated, but I liked
this type of yoga. The core purpose is to align the body, allowing it to heal.
I was shocked at how inflexible I had become. Especially the upper thighs,
back, and shoulders but blamed it on the years of cycling and the lack of any
other form of exercise.
The
course was intensive and lasted the entire morning, making me feel the price
paid was worth it. We had an instructor and three helpers who helped where
needed. It wasn’t about the poses or whether you could touch your toes but what’s
best for you and your body, and three days later, I could already feel a
difference.
In
the evenings, I sauntered to the beach to observe the spectacle. Each night,
the beach transformed into a venue where people were involved in a large array
of activities, from yoga to fire dancing. On one side of the beach was a
drumming circle where people danced, each to their own rhythm, and on the other
side, the Hari Krishna were chanting and drumming. Others were sitting in the
lotus position, staring into space. Several stands sold feathery earrings,
handmade flutes and jewellery. Restaurants placed tables along the water’s edge,
and a general air of festivity prevailed.
The
Peace Garden (where I stayed in a hut out back), had a popular restaurant/bar
area offering nightly music and it was not necessary to go far to socialise.
One could plonk yourself down upon one of the various cushions and, soon
enough, a conversation would start. The best part of this type of socialising was
that one could exit the group at any given time without offending anyone.
5-7
January - Arambol – Panjim (Panaji) - 35 km
Eventually,
I packed up and headed along the coast to Goa’s capital, Panjim. Being a former
Portuguese territory, the town still has a distinctive Portuguese feel and
features tiled-street names.
On
arrival, I popped into Probyk, a bike shop, as my bicycle needed TLC. Chatting
to staff, I was offered a room at a hugely reduced rate in a guest house. The
next two days were spent in absolute luxury while my bike was cared for by the professionals.
The old quarters, where one could find a whole plethora of colourful old
Portuguese buildings begged to be explored. A person could be excused thinking
you’d been transported to the streets of Lisbon.
Two
days later, I collected the bicycle and was more than impressed by the
professional service received. The mechanic was good and replaced all the worn
parts. I ordered two new tyres and had to wait a day or two until they arrived.
In the meantime, investigating the old part featuring old houses with colourful
door and window frames was a fun way to while away the time. The area was still
awfully Portuguese right down to the lace curtains and sleeping cats.
That
evening, I sat upon one of the tiny wrought-iron balconies overlooking the
street, enjoying a beer and masala peanuts. The following day, I collected the
bicycle and was, once again, ready to roll.
8-9
January - Punji – Agonda - 75 km
If
ever you were inclined to envy my life, this day wasn’t one to envy. A day that
should’ve been effortless, turned out surprisingly challenging. Although
well-rested and on a newly serviced bike running smoother than it did in
months, I felt tired and lacked energy. The coastal route was hilly, but I ground
up and over the hills. Certain days require more mental strength than others.
Reaching
the high point was with great relief – after which the road descended all the
way into bustling Agonda, which sported rows and rows of beach huts, touristy
stalls, and beach restaurants. A beach hut came at more than I bargained for,
but I had no energy to search for a better deal. Staying an extra day came
naturally.
Even
though Agonda has grown beyond all measures, it continues to be a relaxing
place to kick back.
10
January - Agonda - Roadside hotel – 82 km
Feeling
significantly better and in good spirits, I was up and over the hills like a
hot knife through butter. Then, finally, my path left the tiny state of Goa and
crossed the border into Karnataka.
On
leaving Goa, the landscape resembled Kerala's backwaters, although nowhere near
Kerala. The ride was a lovely one through the countryside and past rice
paddies. I even tried to take a selfie, but I’m horrible at selfies, even
though I vowed to take at least one in every country. It must surely be the
most monotonous thing one could do and after one shot, I gave up - maybe
another day.
Unsure
whether to detour to famous Om beach, I settled for a roadside hotel. In India,
prices are printed on all items, but at this place, the fee charged was virtually
double. Maybe the hotel only overcharged foreigners, as they imagined they could
get away with doing so. I subsequently discovered the Varadara Hotel was where
backpackers caught the bus. Suddenly, it all made sense.
11
January – Roadside Hotel – Murdeshwar - 90 km
The
time was shortly before 9.30 a.m. when I got underway. The day offered enjoyable
riding, and I met another cyclist for the first time since arriving in India.
Unfortunately, I lost her as I assumed Murdeshwar was still a few kilometres
away.
In
any event, I wasn’t sure I wanted to turn off to the temple town of Murdeshwar,
but eventually decided to explore this temple town one more time.
Murdeshwar
is an alternative name for Shiva and, as can be expected, a colossal statue of
Shiva dominated the town. The statue is 37 metres high and is said the second
tallest in the world. In addition to the statue, the town sported a massive 20-story
temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. The town is thus extremely popular amongst
devotees of Shiva. The place was packed with barefoot and bare-chested men in
black wraparounds, as men can only enter the temple bare-chested.
12
January - Murdeshwar – Udupi - 109 km
The
ride to Udupi was a mixed bag as roadworks continued. Even though I kept an eye
out for a smaller coastal path, I couldn’t locate any and kept going. The
roadworks were a royal pain in the ass, and the road was dreadfully narrow,
congested and poor. However, halfway to Udupi, a new road emerged making it easy
cycling.
Udupi
was an additional temple town, home to a 13th-century Krishna temple
surrounded by eight monasteries. Even at the best of times, Udupi is a hive of
activity. Still, on this day the town was even more crowded due to the Udupi
Paryaya festival - a festival held each year in which the outgoing Swamiji
hands over duties to the new Swamiji. As the centre was swarming with devotees,
all accommodation was chock-a-block full. It took cycling around to find a bed.
In the end, I settled for the fancy Hotel Sri Ram Residency. Even discounted, the
price was far more than usual but also considerably more luxurious.
A
walk around town revealed festivities, including music, a show at the square,
and temples decorated by strings of flowers.
13
January – Udupi, Karnataka – Kasaragod, Kerela - 110 km
On
the outskirts of Udupi, roadside stands provided breakfast - one of my
favourite places to eat. They were dirt cheap, and the conversations with villagers
were priceless.
Roadworks
were in full swing, making it a miserable day of cycling. My chosen path crossed
the state border into Kerala which appeared conservative. It seemed a Muslim part
of the country and a conservative one on top of that, as there appeared more
burkas than in Tehran. More surprising was an election or a celebration, and strings
of Communist Party flags decorated the roads. This combination could put the
fear of God into many a person.
I,
hence, didn’t escape the region without someone giving me the middle finger out
of a car window. In Kasaragod, all accommodation was fully booked but, eventually,
lodging was uncovered and it was a pleasure to put my feet up.
My
mom, then 86 and albeit healthy, needed assistance and TLC. I decided to return
to South Africa to assist and do what I could. The plan was to stay as long as it
would take to ensure my mom was comfortable, stress-free, and happy.
14
January - Kasaragod – Kannur 107 km
It
must’ve been close to 10h00 before finally getting underway. Again, there
seemed no end to the dreaded roadworks, which included long diversions. A
10-kilometre detour is nothing in a car, but cycling, it’s 10 kilometres.
There
wasn’t much time for sightseeing as it took concentrating on the path, which became
narrower as the day progressed. In India, traffic tends to drive without
looking. They will cut you off, pull in front of you, or overtake you as vehicles
approach from the opposite direction.
To
keep my mind off the horrendous driving, I made imaginary jewellery. In real
life, the day passed slowly. Thank goodness for the numerous coconut and sugar
cane juice vendors. Once or twice, I tried chatting to villagers, but not a
great deal of English was spoken off the beaten track. Reaching Kannur, the
market area revealed the Meridian Palace Hotel. Of course, it wasn’t a palace,
but good enough to spend a night.
15
January - Kannur – Kozhikode - 94 km
Blown
away by my Facebook posting of the previous day, it felt good to have such
incredible support. It must be mentioned, I wasn’t going to care for my mother.
My mom made it clear that she didn’t want her kids caring for her and didn’t
want to live with any of us. Her reasoning was sound and I agreed 100%. She
wanted to move to a nursing home and, as that is a significant decision, I merely
wished to assist where possible.
Feeling
lethargic my day was a tad slow. The way wasn’t interesting except for exploring
Fort Thalassery and stopping at the many fruit and juice stands. I pushed onwards
to Kozhikode, where I assumed one could find beachside accommodation. Sadly,
that was not the case as accommodation along the beachfront was too expensive and
it was best to settle for an abode in the alleys.
16
January - Kozhikode – Guruvayur - 90 km
The
Kerala coast wasn’t as exciting as envisaged. It felt like one long, drawn-out
village congested by hectic traffic and a narrow road, which didn’t run next to
the ocean. Maybe it was because I felt lethargic, which is always the case when
cycling for seven consecutive days. It felt as if I was coming down with
bronchitis; not surprisingly, taking the polluted air.
Kerala's
people were immensely friendly, and greetings of “Welcome to Kerala!” were
extended. Usually followed by “What's your country?" and "What's your
good name?"
In
India, the most frequently asked question must surely be, "What is the
purpose of your journey?" To which I feebly answered, “Only travelling”,
leaving them looking somewhat perplexed. "Only travelling…" was usually
repeated with a head wobble.
17-22
January - Guruvayur – Fort Kochi, Kerela - 70 km
My
final day of riding in India arrived and I was half happy and half sad to reach
my destination. From Vypin Island, a short ferry ride took people to Fort Kochi
and I settled for the first available place. It was not the best location as the
room was hot as hell during the day, and not even the fan made the slightest difference.
The
following day, the bike shop packed the bicycle leaving me a few days to explore
Kochi. My time was mostly spent eating momo at the Tibetan restaurant and drinking
coffee at the No18 Hotel.
My
flight was in the early morning, and the last airport bus was at 7 p.m. This
meant the usual long and tedious wait or a pricey taxi ride. I opted for "long
& boring" as I believed I had enough to keep myself occupied.
Miraculously,
and due to the time zone difference, the fight landed in Cape Town, South
Africa on the same day. I stayed for almost three months before realising my
mum was OK and was doing fine without me. From South Africa, I returned to Asia
as I made tentative plans to meet Tania Bouwer later that year in Bangkok for a
cycle ride around Asia.
13
April 2016 – Cape Town, South Africa – Singapore (by plane)
Although
I didn’t get to see everyone and didn’t do everything planned, I said goodbye
to friends and family and departed lovely Cape Town for the long flight to
Singapore via Dubai and Colombo, Sri Lanka.
The
flight wasn’t too bad as long-haul flights go, except it came with a six-hour
layover in Colombo. Moreover, it happened to be the Tamil New Year and a public
holiday in Sri Lanka. As a result, heaps of free fruit, tea, coconut milk and
rice cakes were offered. The rice cakes were lovely, especially since a very
potent chilli paste accompanied them and I was more than happy to be back in
Asia.
