Saturday 23 January 2016

077 CYCLE TOURING INDIA (2) - THE CAMEL FAIR





India (2)

2 570 Kilometres - 72 Days

7 November 2015 – 22 January 2016


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.