Too Busy

Hello all.

Life travelling with ones parents is a busy one so really late getting this one posted up.

Back in Munnar now making final preparations for the next tour starting Jan 4th which should be cracking. Mother and father seem to be loving it, short slow walk followed by tea slurping, followed by another short walk, tea slurping afternoon kip and then time for evening ales and slap up curry binge and that’s just me, mother and father skip the walking bit.
The exhausting bit was the real travelling when we where also accompanied by the redoubtable Mrs Jones. Managed to cram in a lot of temple complexes, ancient civilisation sites and bus ride upon bus ride and train journey upon train journey with time left to squeeze in a few days of the India England test match in Chennai. Limited accommodation options forced my mother and father into a room with a squat toilet which saw us depart earlier than expected and forced us to miss the last days incredible scenes.
Rakesh the Nepali guide is also here busying himself by winding me up about any English sporting catastrophe or indeed anything at all that he can find that will infuriate me , he seems to be at his happiest in this role. Will be lucky to get a Christmas present at this rate even if he got one he would claim I paid too much for it and he could get the same item at 2% of the price in Nepal where items are of course of far better quality. Food is less of an issue now and 2 weeks spent on his own in Kerala has revolutionized his eating habits, dosa’s iddlys and iddiapams are squelched between his fingers with relish now. The problem before he now claims was that I took him to all the worse restaurants in town.
Christmas should be good I have a few big rides planned tomorrow and Christmas eve then its ho ho ho and a bottle of arrack at Johns Cottage with some good old fashioned Turkeyless fun.
The picture shows me entertaining the folks in kuttikanam in my favourite Santa Claus outfit. Look good don,t I ???
Hope yours is good.

Flowery T%$#@

Kuttikanam, Kerala, South India..

Its raining monsoon like rains on the red tiled rooftops. Unexpected and unwelcome but there is loads to do if I can not ride tomorrow. For starters it looks like I am breaking from my long time love affair with the Woodpalace hotel and moving on to the newer glitzier upstart hotel next door. An agitation started last year by the deposed owner to move me on and out appears to have finally payed dividends and so its goodbye to ordering black coffees and receiving milk tea instead no “not possible” “ “keralan marital arts displays”” (martial arts) and sadly no more nocturnal walking catfish. I hope “Misty Mountain Luxury Plantation Resorts” has got something to offer except nice rooms and good coffee.

Last word on televisions. The T.V in my room has not worked properly since I came back, every 5 minutes exactly, it switches itself off on to stand by, no real disaster just means you have to keep the remote handy to to keep the T.V on. Tonight big match Bolton V Liverpool so request for new T.V to prevent any missing action. New improved T.V arrives seems o.k except that the volume is fixed at massive decibels and can not be altered seems preferable to the other faulty one. 6 minutes into the match and it switches itself off onto standby. I persevere with the T.V till the 12th minute when it happens again, become annoyed. 18 minutes same again. Furious…..Roll on Musty Mountains

Anyhow not said much about the last month which was spent in and around Darjeeling. All photos in the blog for the next few weeks will bare no relevance to the text but will attempt make up for a bit of lost ground in pictoral form.

Rakesh (the Nepalli guide) has come back new and improved and has performed sterling work all the last month, will he overcome his personal demons and manage to go a week without complaining about South Indian food? Will my Marzocchi Junior T’s get through Bombay customs in Mrs Jones’s rucksack. Will Misery Fountains be a crock of shite? {Apologies to Fawlty Towers].

A prize offered to anyone but Seb who can remember the most ridiculous and possibly rude Fawlty Towers semi anagram that they showed on the outside of the building at the start of each episode.

Appalling Oversight

In another appalling oversight I have failed to bring my text along with to the internet cafe and have nothing to offer but photographs.

The photos should give you a rough idea on what life was like on the Darjeeling tour. If you can recognise the ludicrous looking animal then you can avail a free pint off me when I return to England No answer sharing allowed. If you can identify the shambolic gurning figure who appears to have fallen off his bike then you can buy me a pint. The other pic shows probably the first ever Orange bike on the back of a horse/pony/ass ever and in the pic the bike is about to unloaded and delivered back to its owner.

Anyhow will be back soon with the real text soon.

Not Much

A technical glitch. I have arrived at tinterweb with me photos but failed to attach all me text to the memory stick so I am in effect wordless but as I am here I might as well attach all my photo's and come back with the real entry tommorrow.

Shoeless

I have returned to Kerala battered, bruised, occasionally shoeless and mentally scarred from a torrid 3000 km 72 hour journey.
Nobody said travel in India was easy. Travelling encumbered with a mountain bike and enough gear to weigh down a team of porters on a Nandi Devi expedition is foolhardy. Managed to accomplish the 1st stage to Delhi with me cousin Scott without too much fuss with only a few scars from the straps of an overweighted bike bag ripping the skin of my shoulders and making me look like an advocate of flagelation which I am in a sense.

After an overnight in Delhi and the departure of me cousin Scott is was time to be reunited with the rest of my long term luggage and attempt to make the journey to New Delhi Railway Station where I planned to avail the assistance of a porter to carry the lorry load of luggage (probably 70 kg) to the remotest outpost of platformdom the dreaded Platform 16. Tears, sweat measured in buckets, enough curses to make a Tamil blush and gurns that frightened away the most pernicious of beggars accompanied me on the torturous 800 meter journey, agony upon agony, misery upon misery and a complete absence of any porters made the trip the hardest thing I have ever done in my life… serious…
Boarded the train with appalling injuries a stiff back, a twisted side and bruises on me biceps that looked like I had run out of places to inject myself made for a pityful sight for the rest of passengers who seized upon my apparent weakness by claiming all the plum window seats.
The last 48 hours on the train was quite relaxing with the only incident to report was the stealing and returning of my flip flops; taken by a big fat man on the top berth opposite. Twice, after dropping down from my top bunk to head out on the platform at stops; I was shocked to find my footwear missing with the rest of the passengers pointing me in the direction of the fat man as the culprit “He has gone to take his toilet” A disturbing image indeed of a fat man squatting down for a crap with my flip flops on. He returned, I feigned annoyance, apologies where made, episode forgotten. So I thought, on the second occasion, my flip flops disappeared for 30 minutes before returning on the cracked feet of the fat man. Sorry he said “mobile charging”. As if it wasn’t taking the shoes that was the problem but the fact that his mobile needed charging. This time I made a bit of a stance and tried to bring in other passengers on to my side to shame the man from further offences. Offers to use other peoples flip flops if need be in the future reigned in. Ridiculous.

Deary Me

A warm welcome back to all readers. Its taken me ages to get organised and I have been back in India almost a month. In Darjeeling at present and just completed the inaugrial tour of the Singalalli ridge. Views and riding were incredible as were the super strong beers slurped down in abundance at high altitude to keep HAPE and HACE at bay. Will be coming back soon with some cracking pictures.

Last Post

Last post till October as I am on the flight home this Tuesday which will draw a conclusion to another brilliant 8 months in India. Summer should witness mountains of cheese, gallons of ale and piles of pies and pastries devoured in the name of healthy eating so look forward to that.
Very busy last week riding, walking and running the trails every day with one day seeing me walk 20km jog 10km, cycle off road for 20km and cycle on road for 60km which put me in serious difficulties for the next couple of days, difficulties manifesting themselves in an unprecedented bout of 24 hour grumpiness that saw me curse monkeys, complain to hotel staff about filthy pillow cases and blank all questions on my marital status which seems to preoccupy every Indians thoughts.
Left the mountains these past three days and travelled through the town of Rishikesh sprawled out along the Ganges River and famed for its East meets West moment when the Beatles signed up for a yoga retreat at the fabled Sri Mahareshi yogi Ashram back in the 60’s. For me it will be remembered for the Hotel Inderlok.
On the second morning I determined to get a decrease in my room rate by explaining that I was inspecting hotels on behalf of a travel company (which is basically true). The hotel receptionist seemed impressed by my credentials and explained that the price of the room could be discounted and suggested a price higher than that paid for the 1st night. Outraged I asked him how this could be.
‘Today high season sir, yesterday low season’, further heated negotiations followed and I managed to get the room heavily discounted to its original price again.
The following morning on my way back into the hotel after breakfast I asked for the key that I had left with the receptionist. “Today checkout ?” he asked passing me the key.

“No tomorrow check out.” I replied

“No sir today checkout, hotel full, wedding party” seizing the key back out of my hand

“Give me the key”

“Today checkout” he replied defiantly

“Give me the key!” I shouted lunging at him trying to wrestle the key out of his hand, an act that seemed to raise the hotel manager from his slumber in the back office who barked some orders at the receptionist who politely handed me the key back and explained that indeed there was room in the hotel tonight and would I need a taxi for the following morning.
With that Fawlty Towers-esque moment decribed I bid you all a fond Namaskaram and look forward to seeing you all soon.

The Hooded Claw

I have just returned from another weeks high altitude trail research and have had my post trip feast spoilt by the merciless monkeys who have taken advantage of a momentary security lapse. The evil “bandas” have munched through my mango, papaya and pomegranate supplies and strewn the plastic bag and inedible bits all over the balcony. Fuming.
Decided to do the last trail research all on foot; which was probably wise; as it took me over 4200 meters altitude on snow bound trails to the mysterious frozen lake of Roop Kund. The shallow ‘Tal’ (lake) is famed for the visible skeletal remains that it contains a result of a doomed pilgrimage over 800 years ago. Unfortunately snow and ice stopped us from reaching the lake, which would have required ice axes, crampons and considerably better trekking gear than my shorts and fell running shoes. Nights were interesting with the only accommodation available in teashops sprawled out on a wooden bench, which served as the counter during the day, wrapped up in blankets. The real bed was shared by the two shop owners who braved the freezing temperatures sharing one blanket sleeping head to toe Laurel and Hardy style with constant arguments over who had most of the blanket.
All the mountainous areas are in a feverish state at present as a gold rush of sorts is in progress coming in the form of a fungus called “Larawa”. Porters, trekking guides and daily laborers have made their way to near 4000 meters altitude in search of their fortune.
It appears birds drop the fungal spores out the sky and if they land right they grow underneath the surface as caterpillar sized black and yellow growths with the top barely visible above the surface as a matchstick sized white stalk. It is these white stalks that the pickers are looking for usually sprawled out on the grass as if sleeping on their stomachs.
The “Larawa” is big money with a kilogram worth 5 lakh rupees which is about £6000, with an individual piece bringing in between 70 and 250 rupees, which is more than a days, wage for most. A picker can expect to collect around 250 a week, which is a massive sum in India. The demand for the “Larawa” is driven by the Chinese, who use it as a boost for sexual power. (The author in a trial ate 3 kilograms of the stuff and is at present still unable to pull his shorts off (and get rid of the host of debt collecting mountain men camped outside the door) NONSENSE)
Fortunes are made at a cost however, temperatures are freezing, rain and snow are common with the pickers usually dressed only woolens and hole ridden leather shoes with makeshift camps of bamboo and plastic sheeting the only protection from the elements. Accidents are common with deaths not unheard of as pickers venture to more remote spots in search of the fungus only to find themselves caught in the snow or lost in the thick mist. With the season lasting only two months these are risks that for many that are worth taking.
Almost forgot. I met a reincarnation of the Hooded Claw (without claw). Genius of a man dressed only in black robes and a black turban which times he dropped down for effect to make his hood and cover a massive scar that ran down his forehead into his left eyebrow giving him a distinctly sinister look. Couldn’t believe it when he approached me introducing himself as Mark from Cambridge with a flourish of his robes. Claims to have been in India for the past 11 years, which is possibly true. I reckon he could have been an actor at some stage and got lost in one of his roles.
Back out in the mountains again tomorrow in an effort to link up all the trails that I have found another week on the bike should be enough then get ready to go back home for the summer for pies, pasties, ale and cheese.

"Fuk-ya" It's too cold to crap!

Wake at the second cock crow which is usually after the third jingling of donkey bells and head off on the trail to Pindari Glacier. Catch sight of Mr Prakesh a few kilometers along the trails heading in my direction which is worrying as I am banking on him and his donkey caravan for supplies and accommodation. He assures me he will make it come rain, sun or snow.
The trail follows the river on a high ridge before plunging down to the ice blue glacial chilled waters revealing further glimpses of the snow capped Himalayas further up the valley. The trail is 4 hours of singletrack, climbing up to 2800 meters to the few crumbling buildings that make up the village of Dwali. I tuck into the ubiquitous trekkers meal of double Maggi noodles topped up with daal and prepare myself for the thinning air and the 15km climb to the glacier.
The trail winds its way up on a thin ledge crossing snow and ice channels, km after km go by and I began to tire and I am in serious need of instant energy. I arrive at the last trekkers supply hut, Phurkiya pronounced "Fuk-ya", half starved and delirious. Disastrously all the biscuits have been gobbled up by a previous group of student trekkers, and with time estimates to knock up a rice and veg meal given in days rather than hours it seems wise to plod on to the glacier rather than wait around.
After Phukiya the trails gradient becomes less severe but more beautiful as it enters an ampitheatre of Himalayan peaks. Snow begins to fall from the sky and the air bcomes decidedly cold as I plod on half cycling, half pushing for the last 3 hours to reach the 'bugyal' or meadow at 3700 meters just below the glacier that will make up our camping ground tonight. I wrap myself up in all the clothes I have and watch the skies clear to reveal truly breathtaking views of the mountains.
Donkeys, trekkers and porters arrive just a I am beginning to turn to ice, tea is rustled up beans and biscuits shuvvelled down whilst the camp is made up by the porters. The porterage team is truly remarkable. For 4 middle aged; and very pleasant; Latvians, a team, worthy of an Everest expedition has been assembled. It comprises of 4 donkeys, 2 guides, 2 chefs, 4 donkey handlers, 4 porters cum tent erectors and a pigeon toed man with tattered leather shoes and a knee length grey jacket who appears to have come from another age whose sole responsibility is to carry the trekkers umbrellas.
The night spent in the tent is horrific, blanket supplies are literally thin on the ground and I am perished as I try to sleep foetus fashion and pray for the sun to rise early, shivering and tired I drift off into oxygen depleted delirium before a few stomach rumbles wake me up and a desperate feeling that the bowels must be evacuated. Its too cold to crap. I stay in the tent miserable.
Morning comes and brings massive relief behind a near by rock. A few of the Latvians are keen on trekking up to the glacier so I join them and the man carrying the umbrellas in an attempt to defrost. Poor vision and snow make the glacier difficult to determine amongst the swirl of white so we head back down and I press on back down the valley on the bike along what must be another piece of the worlds best singletrack for 23 km all the way back to Khatti.

The blankets, the beans and the donkey.

I am back in Bageshwar stuffing down juicy mangoes after a visit to the barber shop for a much needed shave after 7 days of mountain biking bliss on the trails to Pindari Glacier.
Cycled the first 40 kilometers through a scenic valley to the tiny settlement of Song which is the trailhead for the trek. After Song a 5 km steep climb to Loharkhet brought me to my first nights halt which was spent in a British built bungalow. The British in Imperial days were keen trekking enthusiasts and cut paths, logged trees, shot tigers and leopards, brutally suppressed the locals and built bungalows wherever they went to make it easier for the next time they came. The caretaker of the bungalow knocked together a simple meal of rice and lentils as he explained that other cyclists had made it this far last year before abandoning their mountain bikes and doing the rest by foot. The night was very cool compared to the heat on the plains and I was glad to have a nicely burnt brick red shoulders and back; a result of a couple of hours topless cycle repairing on the Bageshwar hotel roof top; to keep me nice and warm through the night.
The following day saw me pushing and carrying by cycle up a steepish and very rocky trail for 3 hours which gave me an understanding of why the other cyclists had abandoned their bikes. The trail crawled up over a 1000 meters from Loharkhet to the near 3000 meter Dwarki pass which is the main access route for the donkey caravans in and out of the valleys and can be blocked for weeks in winter. Men died on the pass last year in an attempt to trek over to Song to fetch supplies but where caught in a blizzard and perished.
The descent down to Khati was astonishing, a winding singletrack rocky trail through thick forests down to the river where the trail traversed the valley side for about 5 km before arriving at the medieval looking village of Khatti and presenting me with my first clear sight of the snow capped Himalayas and a greeting party of a hundred or so excited villagers who had seen the first ever cycle to visit the valley.
Tomorrow promises to be brilliant the local trekking expert Mr Prakash is taking a group of Latvians to the Pindari Glacier and is planning to camp just below the Glacier itself he has room on one of his donkeys for a few blankets, a spare tent and a few tins of beans for breakfast. The plan is for me to cycle the 23km and 1500 metre ascent and meet them at "Zero Point" at 3700 meters above sea level tomorrow.

Come back for more tomorrow for part 2.

Will the misadventurist make it?
Will the donkey eat all the beans?
How many blankets do you need to keep warm at 3800 meters?

Nostrils

Dear me. Been stuck on the crap top in me tiny cell of a room sweating and slaving away on the computer these last few days typing up all the new details for this years Mountain Bike Kerala goes Himalayan tours which should be superb. It will be pleasant to get back on the bike this afternoon and head off towards the fabled Pindari Glacier on the mountain bike, reckon it could take a week if I can bike all the trecking trails so could be the last entry for some time.
The expedition party has fallen to pieces, bars, homesickness and a social boycott has accounted for them all so its only me now which is much more easy to manage. Nani Tal was superb, and a week there and in the old cultural capital of Uttaranchal; Almora; has thrown up three brilliant days of mountain biking so thrilled with that.
Have now moved on to Bhageshwar a crumbling temple town on the confluence of two amazingly clear rivers. Bhageshwar is the staging post for the next round of exploration and the town is pleasant enough and hosts enough barber shops to shave all the male inhabitants of the entire subcontinent so if I get chance will go on a barber shop crawl this morning to test a few out.
Testing times in the jeep over here yesterday completely packed with people with one elderly fellow seemingly taking a keen interest in my right knee for the whole trip duration tickling it and putting his hand on it, (this has happened before last year) but with the added twist that he kept picking his nose in between bouts of knee worship and seemed unabashed about sticking his nostril contaminated fingers back onto my seriously unhappy knee.

Exhumed corpse

We have shifted sides from Darjeeling and the North East and are now in the Western Himalaya in the former British Hill Station of Nani Tal a pleasant escape from the searing summer heat 40c plus temperatures on the plains and at this stage appears to have endless trails to have a go at.
A local guide pamphlet describes Nani Tal as a place with “A number of good eating houses and no prohibition but creating a nuisance in public is discouraged by police” bars close here at a ludicrous 8.p.m so you have to get the beers down early if you want to create a fracas, looking at the local taxi drivers staggering around trying to find their vehicles at closing time this seems to be the case.
Our research team has now expanded and has the feel of an ill-fated expedition party. In present company we have myself, the surly contrarian Nepali Rakesh who now takes issue with every utterance I make even the early morning casual remark “good morning’ is debated. Mike “70 pint a week” from Sheffield who is coping admirably well with the early bar closures; and Mr S a tragic-comedy figure from Manchester who at times has the look of a chain smoking exhumed corpse. He appears to be coping less than well with early bar closures, Indian food, Indian style room service and dehydration. We had to pick him up off the streets of Delhi a few days ago as he collapsed after lighting up a cigarette in the 40C heat after a heavy nights drinking before, tried to force some fizzy pop mixed with salt down his neck to revive him, which is decidedly difficult when you have a Nepali arguing over which brand of Cola revives people best.
All went well on the Darjeeling section with all routes lined up and ready to go this October the riding is the best I have ever done anywhere so far with some massive descents which go on for more than 20km of singletrack at times absolutely brilliant. Exhausting work at times, I have been up on the ridge before its still tough cycling at 3600 meters. On a few occasions I had to descend from 3500 m down to 2000 m , drop the bike and then hike back up again to the ridge to check out the routes in reverse and for other starting points for the descents, well worth it though and I must have done more than 8500 meters of climbing by bike and by foot in a week.

Ludicrous Scenes

Khatmandu. At last I have managed to secure another Indian visa, which is in itself an event. The Indian embassy staff have a reputation for surliness but given the ludicrous scenes that play out inside and outside the embassy gates it is quite understandable. The closest way to describe it would be like lining up outside Headingley for a Saturday test match complete with innumerable exhibitionists in fancy dress but with everyone taking it seriously. This week featured a red Indian, a man in a mask, people dressed as Hari Krishna’s; probably Hari Krishna’s; men and women topped in ludicrous hats and innumerable professional traveler types strutting round like peacocks in their multi coloured garb. Cricket balls are replaced with juggling balls and cans of ale for bongs and spliffs; (probably both at Headingley]; half an hour of this could be entertaining but there is a limit to the number of times you can be struck by an errant juggling ball before being seized by the urge to kick it onto the nearest roof.

Elections are coming to soon to Nepal which is marked by the previously insurgent Maoists joining the political mainstream and participating in the elections, despite having innumerable weapons and armed cadres they have proclaimed their commitment to democracy and vowed to honour the result whatever the outcome. However all groups are viewing the elections and build up as a means to securing their own objectives and myriad different groups have appeared all equally militant, ready to strike, block roads or march on political opponents with sticks and beat a few people to death.

I have now left Nepal and returned to Darjeeling just before the elections start. With the only way out by air or along the vulnerable, frequently blocked Terrai road that runs along the border with India. (Our bus was stopped by three hours until a police escort arrived to prevent us from coming under attack). I am happy to be back in India and ready to get back on the bike tomorrow and head back to the Singalila ridge under the shadow of the worlds third highest mountain Kanchenjunga. Yaks freezing temperatures and a two day climb to start thing off are all promised.

Rubber Stamp

The last tour of the year has finished and the rains have started to pour; 10 days non- stop; with massive damage to paddy fields, crops and numerous deaths. Spent the last four days packing up the cycles and training up the newest members of the team; Sinoj and Chippy. Sinoj aged 17 has ridden out with us about a dozen times whilst Chippy aged 14 was full of enthusiasm before undergoing a full days training doing nothing else but tube patching. A Trek bike is in there hands and I expect a phone call soon for advice on cycle repairing.

Its Tuesday 9 a.m and I have been on the train 48 hours now and have been promised 12 more should see me through to my destination of Gorakpuhr with 12 hours by bus seeing me through to Kathmandu and another Indian visa run. Appear to have overloaded the train with cycling gear this time with enough supplies and spares to last me 3 months of route finding. Almost collapsed carting a giant 36” suitcase containing my cycle and about 20 kg of spares up from my hotel to the railway station and onto the remotest platform 7 accessed only by the a heart attack inducing flight of stairs. Even the beggars recognized my plight offering sympathetic looks and refraining from asking me to dip into my inaccessible pockets for a few rupees. Feels like I have ruptured my biceps and two days on I am still struggling to stretch my arms out.

Anyhow now sat in the usual 2nd class sleeper carriage surrounded by numerous interested parties watching me type away, underneath my feet is a small dirt blackened boy sweeping the floor in return for loose change. A gaggle of aggressive eunuchs has just swept through the train cursing everyone in sight, clapping their hands, demanding money of all the men who seem ready to pay to ensure that their wives are not rendered barren by their magic.

I have spent the majority of the journey in the company of a vet from Kerala who has been supplying me with food that his mother made; 9 full South Indian meals wrapped up in banana leaves and bags of fried banana trips all kept in a bulging plastic bag, by day 3 his breakfast of iddlis had turned mouldy and he was forced to patrol the station platform in search of some fast food made by unclean hands.

The vet appears disillusioned with life with no wife yet despite being in his early 30’s in attempts to find a bride he spends 2 hours daily on the internet looking through the online marriage sites which is not his only source of online entertainment judging by his mobile phone downloads which he seemed eager for me to view, showing something indescribable featuring a horse and another object most possibly a human being. Appears to have an unhealthy interest in animals even for a vet. He is heading back to Lucknow to work in a halal slaughter house where his job is to ensure that the animals are slaughtered in a human way. He informs me that this is not the case as the buffalos are not stunned before having their throats slit (which is banned in India) but he signs the certificate anyway. “ What can I do I am just a rubber stamp.”

Tufty Club

In search of the new (mountain biking) lands we embarked upon a 2 day cycling tour to Kodaikanal. 30 km on road up to Top Station at 2000 metres above sea level then a cut through a steep sided terraced valley reminiscent of Nepal which caused a smile from our possibly homesick guide Rakesh. From there all trails through the Western Ghat mountain range led up and on we pedaled and pushed for hour after hour until reaching another valley which after a tremendous descent spat us out at the town of Kalavala. From there, 45 km on a broken traffic less road led us through forests to our destination Kodaikanal.

Nothing seems possible in the decidedly unaccommodating Kodaikanal. A visit to the forest department in search of their recommended trekking maps proved futile. After 10 minutes of unproductive discussion I concluded “No information, no pamphlets, no trekking, nothing possible, is this a fair reflection of what you have to offer?” “Yes” replied the forest officer. I shook his hand and thanked him before leaving. “Do not try the trekking guides they will mislead you,” he shouted as I walked out. Which reminded me of a trekking guide in Munnar who offered me his services and card. The card stated

MR SURESH KUMAR

LISENSD TRIKKING GUIDE.

ALL TRIKKING AVILABULL

Surrounding the very attractive star shaped lake that forms the heart of Kodaiakanal sit stone bungalows with well trimmed gardens welcoming the visitor with a stern ‘No trespassing.” All the tracts of forested land sandwiched in between have also been fenced off. Worst of all were the church of South India who appeared to own most of the prime lands protected by 8 ft fences replete with signs like “beware very savage dogs” and “violators will be prosecuted”. I half expected to see a sign saying “Fuck Off” adorning the gates of the numerous crumbling British built churches.

Attempts to avail a day pass for the Kodaikanal club, which is advertised as welcoming visitors also proved problematic. Signs stressed the need to wear a jacket and collared long sleeve shirt which precludes most occasional visitors I suspect. “ Are you a member of a club?” asked the club secretary. “Yes but you might not recognize them” I replied. “Which club is that” probed the secretary as he surveyed my flip-flops and collarless long sleeve cycle shirt which was unfortunately stained. Errm “The All England Mountain Bike Club and I used to be a member of Tufty Club”. Do you have a letter of rcccommendation? “ Errrr No” .

Bonda

Well it had to happen some day; I have fallen ill. Who and what to blame for the poisonous food inside me that makes me sick and gives me the drizzling shits???






Yesterday's diet looked like this.

Egg curry, 4 appams (like over sized crumpets)
4 coffees
Bonda (like a doughnut but chewier best eaten hot) and 2 black teas
Egg curry, green peas curry (pronounced green peace), chick pea masala
6 parothas
Vegetable Pillou (rice) and daal thadka (lentil curry)
4 Pappadum
1 bowl of vegetable yoghurt
2 Beers
1 fizzy pop
3 litres of water

Errm doesn’t sound good does it.

Experts (those responsible for all my food except the Bonda) blame the Bonda bought from a tea stall near the estate of Mlamala. According to Mr Devas of Devas restaurant, Bondas should never be eaten “problem powder making”. Today, for the first time since October I have a fancy for a cheese sandwich, possibly crisps and a biscuit and banana combination perhaps with ice cream.
Anyhow incapacitation isn’t the end of the world, its worse. For me it results in endless list making (see above) list upon list upon list in multiple notebooks each full of lists of half completed tasks. Now I am compiling the best of the best lists to see what I have forgotten in the last admittedly very busy 5 months.
Hopefully be back up and moving tomorrow and shift back to Munnar and then Kodaikanal (which has appeared on one of my lists of new areas to research).

Towels of Insanity.

If you have ever tried to repair a bicycle you will know what a frustrating task it can be. An afternoon attempting to regrease the bearings of my headset should have been an easy enough job but events took a turn for the worst as the hotel staff discovered my new cricket bat and pitched up a quick game of cricket next to me to show of their cricketing skills namely straight driving the ball at the crimson faced sweating figure of fun, me. This coupled with other interested hotel guests picking up pumps, tools, and cycling gear whilst quizzing me on my marital status made things decidedly tricky.
Another tour has finished which by all accounts was another massive success accept for an unfortunate incident which involved 4 of my cycling guests riding over a tiny puppy whilst leaving me to pick up the apparently dead pup to ensure that relations with the local Tamil population were not irreconcilably damaged. A miracle saved the day with my mouth to mouth resuscitation attempts; which involved me spitting water sucked out of my camel- back onto the nose of the upturned squashed puppy; appearing to work which startled me and the puppy in equal measure. The locals seemed similarly astonished as I handed back the fluffy little canine which was promptly stuffed into a bundle of straw to finish off the recovery process.
Presently in the middle of the penultimate tour of the season before heading back to Darjeeling to complete preparation for next Octobers inaugural tour which promises to be interesting as we have to arrange a caravan of Yaks to follow us on the high altitude trails on the Singalila ridge on the Indo-Nepali border. Today’s main riding interest came in the form of a happy looking elephant flapping its ears in joy as it enjoyed a trip on the back of a truck whilst making its way to its next logging job.
Stop Press: A sanitary towel (unused thankfully) has just landed on my head more are now falling from the sky. Investigations reveal a troupe of monkeys have raided one of the rooms above and are emptying the contents of some unfortunate ladies bag over the balcony and on to the terrace below. A tube of toothpaste and a bikini top has now made its way down with more items expected soon.

Cheese Pies

Another tour of duty finished and I find myself in Cochin waiting for the next group arriving tonight from Singapore. In the room next door is a very pretty French lady who looks rather comical in a non too fetching neck brace a result of a mishandled ayurvedic massage and a rather unfortunate fall off one of my mountain bikes. I blame the massage. She blames me.
All else appears well except for some access issues with some of tea estate managers in our highest mountain bike base of Munnar. The tea estate managers are instantly visible with their wide brimmed hats, socks pulled up over the knees, ludicrous thigh clenching shorts, walrus moustaches and accents sourced presumably sourced from back copies of Black Adder and the character of Colonel Melchet. We now have “allied” tea estates where we can cycle around freely without fear and those now classified as “enemy” estates manned by watchman whose job it is to expel any foreigners, cyclists or clueless Indian newly wed tourists intent on grabbing a quick photo.
Food problems continue with the Nepali guide Rakesh, we have moved out of the rooms with a kitchen and are back staying in the same hotels as the guests, here Rakesh has no choice but to noisily shuvvle down the same food as the rest of us which he described; in a particularly impassioned attack on the merits of South Indian food; as disgusting.
Everyone is a food snob in the subcontinent. Witness any tour party arriving from another part of India and you will see an entourage of chefs pot washers and helpers piling out of minibuses clutching vast cooking vessels ready to rustle up exactly the same food as the tour party is used to at home. Plan to bring my mother over next year with bags of flour and some cheese and knock together some of her famed pies.

Don't be stupid

Birthdays have come and gone and the second day as a 35 year old is celebrated as a rest day with many routine tasks to do. As I type away Rakesh is busy fiddling with his bicycles front mech; a cause of endless fascination and frustration to him. In the room next to me is a giggling Aravind who seems more than happy blowing washing- up liquid bubbles all over me and the computer for reasons known only to himself.
Spent the last three days on trail research which involves getting up at 7.30 a.m for the proposed 7.00 a.m starts and much faffing about. Rakesh maintains that only he can cook food properly with Anglo-Nepali relations reaching a nadir as he accuses me of undercooking the porridge; itself a recent innovation as Rakesh distrusts food taken from outside; I counter attack later in the day as I reprimand him for putting to much oil on his chain.
Massive days on the bikes with an epic 10-hour ride through India’s highest tea estate of Kohl Kumaily with its astounding sheer 2000-meter drops down to Tamil Nadu below. Climb up to 2300 meter with the last 30 minutes a carry to break through a seldom used pass to drop us into Silent Valley and complete a hoped for loop back to Munnar. Things take a turn for the worst as the trails disappear into the forests and we cycle and carry for hours staying high on the ridge looking for signs of a path. By 4 p.m it seems sensible to scramble down any which we can “Anyhow Kam Chalou” in the words of Rakesh. Long grass, stubborn shrubs and thorny trees tear our shins to shreds as we finally catch a glimpse of the tea estates again, only to be thwarted by a cliff sheer drop. We veer left back towards the forests in the gathering gloom and luckily manage to scramble down some less imposing rocks to the tea estate paths just before a night out in the open became a serious concern. I ask Rakesh what lessons we have learnt today expecting some Nepali philosphising about respect for the mountain. The lesson he proclaims is “don’t be stupid”. Seems reasonable enough.

Freewheeling

The first frost of the winter greets me as I step outside my half demolished Munnar hotel. Return to room and cover myself with Canadian made duvet jacket purchased on the Munnar market for 200 Rs (£2.50) The night clothes market has a remarkable ensemble of 2nd hand clothes mostly donations sent by North Americans for the Kashmiri earthquake victims a few years go which have now been recycled around India.
10 day tour just finished all went superbly with mid 30,s friends from home huffing puffing and tumbling around the trails with a New Zealander and a triathlete from South England. Some superb moments with wild elephants spotted near the trails slaking their thirst in the idyllic Mattupatty lake. Closer elephantine encounters came in Kuttikanam with a 1000 metre descent down to the sweltering plains being temporarily halted by a working elephant trundling up the narrow rocky trail head on towards us.
The highlight of the tour for me though was the cycling Sabrimalla pilgrims hundreds of who could be seen In the usual black garb, bearded and barefooted freewheeling down towards Mundekayam a 20km road descent. This was heaven to these men after the 30 km plus climb they had endured; on gearless Indian made lumps to steel; to climb up from the plains of Tamil Nadu before crossing the Western Ghats. The whooping noises and expressions of pure glee as they careered down the mountain side towards the sacred Sabrimmalla temple was unforgettable.
Rakesh the trainee mountain bike guide is much improved after his 10 days training in Pokhara Nepal. Seems more than capable on the rocky technical trails and his fitness has improved greatly. On the downside he appears to be transforming himself into my personal assistant with me in the role of clueless, hapless Engishman caught miles away from home and struggling with the ways oft the natives. My years of subcontinental experiences are reduced to nothing as he corrects my Hindi, makes a mockery of my Malayalam, laughs at my well rehearsed haggling skils in the market and worst of all condemns my freshly made salad as poorly chopped up and refuses to eat it. Need a firm hand these Nepali’s.

Sabrimalla

All going swimmingly here as new bikes, new arrivals and the the trainees absorb all time that could have been spent watching the Australia-India test series.
New Year was quiet. No foreigners for hundreds of kilometres as I spent the evening in Kuttikanam at the hotel with 4 young families from Kanjirappalli waiting for the arrival of a booked group of 50 revellers before the evening buffet and music could start. 8 p.m was delayed till 9 p.m, an hour greeted with anxious phone calls to the revellers who promised to arrive soon. 10 p.m came and went, byrianies became cold and kitchen staff became suicidal at the prospect of working through the night to feed the hordes. By 10.30 I was starving and managed to shovel down a plate of tapioca and fiery fish curry in the kitchen just before an announcement that the revellers had cancelled and the food for 60 was to be shared between us. Too full to eat any more I retired early for 2008 with burning lips and a belly full of syrupy ales and expanding tapioca.
Running around like a madman today and have made the 1st half of a 10 hour round trip to pick up an extra bike for the new trainee Sinoj. Crappy looking Trek 4500 but should be O.K for the lanky 17 year old who after 5 rides on the Kona's already looks a better prospect then me. Trainee "number 1" Rakesh from Khatamandu is making his way down on a three day journey by bus and train to arrive on the 9th after 10 days intensive training in Pokhara, under the tutelage of the masterly French downhiller Rebours Tangi. Expect to be reduced to the sweepers role on the tour starting tomorrow and further expect to be put out of business by the pair of them soon after.
Sabrimalli season in full flow at the moment which means medieval scenes at railway stations, picnic spots and almost everywhere else. Millions of pilgrims dressed in black lungis (men skirts)
walk the streets barefooted with bundles of clothes and offerings strapped to the their heads as they make their way to the the forested temple complex of Sabrimalla.
Only men are allowed into the temple complex as women who are capable of menstruating are scene as polluting and could defile the temple complex's purity. Three of us including one lady tried to cycle down a superb downhill trail through the forest last year, but were ambushed by local forest guards unwilling to let the lass pass despite the fact we would by pass the complex by miles.
The men most undergo 41 days of abstinence from sex, wash only with water, not shave and walk around barefooted on their way to the temple complex. Many walk hundreds of miles from the neighbouring states of Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh visible as shuffling black skinned bodies on the side of the road.
In about a weeks time the pilgrim season reaches its climax as the celestial lights appear over the temple to signify the pilgrims darshan with the god Ayappa. The mysterious lights appear like flickering stars and ignite uproarious scenes amongst the frenzied devotees. Non believers claim that the light has a far less godly source and can be tracked down to two men hidden in the thick forest with a powerful torch.