The Gynecolgist.

I stand near the campfire. A man walks up to me “are you married?” “No not yet” I respond. He stands closer, head leans in, brandy breathed, whispering conspiratorially, moustache now tickling my ear “I am a gynecologist”.
The first word on everyone’s lips here in Kerala is marriage. The question comes out of the blue without any warm up or pleasantries like Indians habit off beeping there horns without reason it is an impulse and can not be controlled. Yesterday I attended a betrothment, an engagement ceremony. Down in the hot and sticky town of Mundekayam. I vowed to myself last time not to overdress but I forgot. Jeans, shoes and a shirt was almost the death of me. Everybody else turned up in dhotis (men skirts) and sandals. A massive meal of beef and fish curry followed. I melted as the food was piled on to my banana leaf. Are you married asks the man next to me “Yes”
In Kerala as in the rest of India everyone in their mid 20’s is married. Single status at my age is an anathema it is beyond comprehension. Puzzlement and bewilderment always follow when I say I am not married this is followed by a sense of shame and inadequacy on my behalf, for everyone’s benefit it is best to claim married status. Over the last few years I have been married more times than a serial bigamist could ever wish for. I have been divorced more times than Joan Collins (keeping it topical) and on some occasions I have even been a widower. I might, even, whilst under the influence of beer claimed to have kids as well. To be a bachelor, or here a “chronic bachelor”, has serious undertones. It assumes sadness, misery an absence of a real life. Worse still it means a virgin and that you probably haven’t kissed a girl. At 36? (all possible, truth and reality have become blurred) So better to make it all up?
Before I have tried to explain my position of loves lost but this goes down even worse, men stare at there feet, women cover their mouths, birds stop chirruping in the trees it can take minutes to recover conversation.
Devas and Lucosh and all the brandy men in the village of Kuttikanam are scheming now. Glass after glass is poured down. We will arrange it they say. No rush I say but if it does end, or start like this I would like a lass who could cycle. First children and housewife then she can cycle they assert. Sounds good. Anyhow I have a months respite; at least amongst the Christians; no one can get married in the 25 days before Christmas without the a letter from the Archbishop of the Antioch himself. To everyone else reading in Kerala I am a happily married thanks. No more questions. Good night. Are you married?

Panam Poyee (money gone)

I am back in Kerala and it’s costing me a fortune. Old friends are welcoming me back with open arms and empty pockets. Jillmon; mustachioed driver with a look and a drinking habit of an early Oliver Read; was 1st in touch. He appears shortly after 8 a.m dressed incongruously in dirty white jeans pulled up over his burgeoning stomach a white shirt is tucked into this and foreign made black trainers complete the look. He is ready for an interview that morning for a job in the Middle Eastern. After shoveling down his breakfast paid for by me he explains his “house money problem, you are my ATM” 1500Rs swap hands with an explanation that he would give it me back after the next tour. No problems.
Next up Sanjay who had borrowed a large sum last year to buy his 1st car. He can’t drive but the plan was to employ a driver as is common here and take tourists both domestic and foreign. He had given a vague promise before that the said same alleged car would take me back to the mountains the following morning. He phones, the possibly fictitious car has had a disastrous and untimely brake failure so I am back to asking Jillmon to organize transport for tomorrow. Sanjay meanwhile can still make it for tonight’s pre season staff complimentary booze up. I assume he will turn up with an explanation and a draught repayment scheme. In the steamy, dark, tomb like conditions of Cochin’s Embassy bar no mention is made of either, brandy is poured down with abandon, Jillmon is mixing his with super strong beer now. My boiling beer takes on the consistency of syrup in a syrup sponge; the bill comes, its time to pay up.
Kuttikanam. I am back. The trainees are summoned. Bikes are brought along. The Kona has survived well at first sight, while the Trek 4500 looks like a house has collapsed on it. Nothing has survived. It appears that every child and adult in the village have twiddled with the now demolished shifter pods, the grips look like they have been laid over with 6 inches of tarmac, the front mech is at a right angle to the frame and completed seized up, wheels are egg shapes and all the cables are missing. I ask Chippy if he thinks he has looked after the bike well this summer he looks sheepish and turns to Sinoj for encouragement “Yes”.
Nighttime and we are Devas’s restaurant for more brandy. Lucosh has been dispatched by me in his auto rickshaw for a bottle of brandy and a box of beers. 1 litre of Mansion House Brandy is returned, opened and poured down in an hour. I stand outside with Devas as it starts to drizzle ‘ very healthy, jump” he says as he kicks his heels of the ground giggling manically.

Pedals to Paddles

I am back in Kerala now but will blog my way back to date bit by bit. A slow start wityh thsi one but here goes.
I am back in Delhi again another tour has been and gone and I am in a transitional phase between North India Tours and South India tours, from the hectic hustle bustle of the tours to having time to think and be alone in my peregrinations. It takes some getting used to.
The Singalila Ridge tour this year was brilliant, riding tough with some cracking descents great views and good company. White water rafting was a new addition to the tour schedules redefining the word “extreme” (I will give a little background here). All our group had some good WWR experience from African torrents to NZ fast flows, in comparison Rakesh can’t swim and is (was) scared of the water, while my experience was limited to a testing time in the Teesta river on a section of rapids that “even a Bengali child can do”. We arrived late to meet our guides who all sported piratical scars, with one fellow replete with a missing eye. Rakesh quizzed them on which was to be the most challenging route and came back ashen faced “extreme”.
The 1st lot of rapids almost had us all in the Teesta and found Rakesh in a brace position hidden at the front of the boat way out of his supposed position of weighing down the front end to keep the boat from toppling. After the initial scare it was all a bit tamer with some rough and tumble sections but hardly the Zambezi. Good fun with a few Hawaii 5- O team (showing my age here) sprints to make us (me) feel professional.
Left Darjeeling at a good time really, from the 15th November its curtains for some of my favourite drinking establishments as taxable alcoholic drinks are being banned in an attempt to deprive the West Bengal Government of revenues. The ban is part of a wider agitation in support of a separate state of Gorkhaland to be carved out of West Bengal. Already there is a payment strike on electricity bills and they hope this “double measure” will further pressurise those in Calcutta. On the good side though drinkers can still tipple on locally made arrack and millet beer, I hope the super -strong is back on the shelves though when I go back next year.

Three Wheeler Driver Arrested

We are on the train to Darjeeling. New Jalpaiguri to be exact. It started 7 hours later and has managed to consume more time still while moving and we are now late by 16 hours. Newspapers have been read, put down, used as dinner plates and then re –read so with little else to do the laptop comes out of the bag and I type.

The first tour of the season is over a whistle stop, fast paced, mini monsoon sloshed 9 days of hard riding, some hard carrying, outlandish Himlayan views brilliant descents and all round tough but brilliant fun. For me and probably the group as a whole it was almost impossible to fit anything more in, every second of the day was used up to keep us and the bikes moving or ready for moving; with in the end, the tour finishing in somewhat comical fashion as over £20000 pounds worth of bikes arrived on the back of a giant rickshaw (not the expected jeeps) at Delhi airport with just two hours left before the flights departure. Not one of MTB Kerala’s proudest moments but good for the camera’s. Enquiries are still being held here at MTB Kerala’s HQ. In a final ludicrous moment the rickshaw driver was arrested just after the delivery of the bikes on Delhi airport’s bye- law that restricts entry to the airport for three wheelers. We spent an hour on the tarmac near departures pooling our rupee resources to secure the release of the driver and his driving license.

To all who came out on the tour thanks for coming and making it so memorable, night riding will never be the same without the aid of a 60 Rupee torch bought from a Kharmi sweetshop!!

Marks and Spencers

I take a day off for organization purposes and to shake of the Godfather effect. I crave news so find a T.V and settle down to Al Jazeera; its good. I want more news so trek the 5km shortcut to Joshimath for a paper, catch up with some computer work and to try to locate my missing mobile phone. It disappeared the day before in a rasto-roko (road block) a group of aggrieved women had blocked the road in protest and in the confusion and the wandering about to find out why the phone must have fallen out of my pocket. I ring my number in hope rather then expectation. A man answers the phone in a mixture of Hindi and English he had found it in a jeep he says and had tried ringing numbers to trace me and my friends. He lives in a village miles away from any road he says, he is a shepherd (of sorts) well owns animals but shepherd sounds better. He arranged to bring the phone to the districts biggest town the following day and drop it off at a hotel This is good news. I trek back up to Auli, this is tough I need a beer. The barman looks annoyed. There are no other customers. There is a big clock ticking…………

I am out above the ski resort the trails are brilliant but its high above 3000 meters and there are no villages up here. The landscape has a more rolling moorland feel to it so its gentler riding, but the big snow capped peaks are visible in all directions. The trail climbs and climbs and rounds the low level mountain then where it changes dramatically the trail hugs the mountainside in a tiny sliver with a huge vertical drop on one side. I continue gingerly to a mini landslip which without the bike would be negotiable. I am twitchy I head back with the view of the Kwari Pass and the days planned destination Tapowan 20km down the valley below me arrgh.
I return the ride back is brilliant the singletrack climb reversed. I head for the bar. I am welcomed the baman appears happy he speaks enthusiastically. A T.V is on the bar. Cricket is tuned in more guests arrive for a drink. Brilliant.

I am now on the train to Delhi I am in luxury class 3.AC. The man opposite me stares at me indifferently, chomping on a samosa , spilling pastry flakes on to the seat. The last week has been a retreat from the mountains from base camp (cycle) to base camp picking up all my supply stores on the way. I have got incredible amounts of good riding for next year and loads of more trails half explored that look promising. The Colonel has stored my cycles and spares so no more struggling with massive bags and bikes in the 43C heat of Delhi. For that I can not thank him enough. Tommorrow I fly back. I am looking forward to it. Late September I am back here again. 4 months in the U.K should be enough time to refresh, pile on the pounds on real English, get me mother off to Marks and Sparks again and think of something interesting to type in the next blog. See you then. Mike

Godfather

Awake 4.30 a.m full of enthusiasm for a days road riding, no getting lost on the agenda. Take on copious amounts of tea, which is a precursor to any good days riding in India. I discard clothes in a gung ho fashion to ease the weight in the plastic bag Sportswear t-shirts bought my mother form Marks and Spencer’s in 1998 appear to have a shelf life about 3000 hand washes and innumerable batterings from Indian Dhobi Wallahs. They will be happy never to see the filthy rag again.
The road to Joshimath is the main pilgrimage route to the ancient temples of Badrinath one of the four holiest points in all of India for the Hindu’s. Whilst for the Sikhs the 4000-meter plus high lake of Hem Khund Sahib is the pilgrims aim. Whilst many drive the pilgrimage trails many still walk for hundreds of miles and more. Most of these pilgrims are Sadhus, those who renounced materialism and roam about from temple to temple. These Sadhus all adopt a particular look; bearded, straggly, half crazed and boggle eyed and mostly travel alone so its good company to be alone in. They appear happy to see a sweating cyclist struggling up the climbs and cheer or raise their tridents in appreciation. No questions of are you alone from these men its obvious and part of the journey so to speak. I feel quite proud to be cycling past them and acknowledge their efforts with the odd pulled wheelie and a few rounds of tea for all the chaii shops.
Big climb up to Auli another 800-meter height gain. But something is driving me on. Another worldly force. A feeling so strong I can not account for it. I fly up the hill exhilarated, reborn, an epiphonous moment you ask? Errm not quite. I had read the previous night in a guidebook that the Ski resort of Auli “had a well stocked bar”. The only one for hundreds of kilometers and I am beer less for almost a month now.
The bar is portakabin. There is a big clock ticking loudly. There are no other customers. The barman looks annoyed to be doing his job if only every 20 minutes to pass me a beer. 4 Godfather super strongs and I am out of it.

Extra Sugar

It’s morning. I have slept well the buffalo’s have to started to mooch about below in the barn and I am groggy but awake. There is scrambling on the steps outside a tiny hand is visible at the door a child enters the room shortly followed by a bigger child, then a youth enters followed by another youth and a couple of adults. They arrange themselves on the bed opposite and observe curiously. What am I supposed to do? Thinking of no other options I mumble a few good mornings then rouse myself from bed much to the delight of the crowd, pull on a few clothes, grunt a bit to further the crowds enjoyment and head out the door for a slash. I am followed out, flippin eck surely I can do this unobserved.
Breakfast is consumed outdoors, black tea, chapattis and some spinach, its good. I offer Mr Singh some money for the night and food, he declines sheepishly but then reluctantly takes it, my next cup of tea has milk in it and extra helpings of sugar it is handed over with a beaming smile.
The forest trail works this time it is simply brilliant 8km of singletrack through thick forest, birds coloured more brightly than I could imagine; red, blue, yellow whistle through the trees as if putting on a show. The trail traverses trough the trees then swooshes down to a water mill with a busy old lady milling chapatti flour. I am in Sootol.
Sootol has a fly blown wild west fell to it, all the men and women appear to absent apart from a couple of shop owners. Its Lawa season so many have headed high onto the meadows to search for the mummified caterpillar that’s worth £4000 a kilo and shipped over to Chinese as an aphrodisiac. For me the town is memorable for the horde of kids following me around armed with pots, pans and empty buckets and sticks to beat the makeshift drums with. Noise follows me everywhere. I depart the town the kids give chase, spewing over the front wheel clinging to the bike his is dangerous and incredibly noisy.
The rest of the trail is cracking its all narrow track running along a ledge with a big drop on one side, its edgy stuff, landslides here and there force me off the bike as do a 40 minute carry and a freak rainstorm. I ride and ride singletrack turns to wide track then a jeep trail then its tarmac and the small town of Ghat. A bit of an eyesore after all the pristine forest. I ride on to the town of Chamoli and treat myself to an overpriced room with hot water and a T.V.

Are You Alone?

Misery replaced by serenity as next day’s descent through thick forest is excellent, wide track but steady gradient and a good 15 km downhill. Return to the miserable town of Dewal scene of a horrors last year when caught up in rainstorm and forced to spend the night. Pedal through frantically then I am climbing for three hours and over 1500 meters in height on a jeep track with the odd bit off broken road up to Loharkhat.
Everyone appears drunk and mills around the few shops in the centre of the village asking me if I am alone. Which is a reasonable enough question but begins to infuriate after the 25th asking especially when it seems to stop all conversation with the questioner either overcome by intense empathy for my fate or complete incomprehension that someone could travel alone. After a bit even the happiest moods can soon be brought to an abrupt end when you are constantly reminded that you are alone a fate worse than death in Indian eyes. They are never alone. Return to room to be alone and sulk.
Early start the next day and I am soon in Wan at the foot of the 700 m climb up the Khukina Khal the first 70% is not rideable so throw the bike over the shoulders and start to climb its steep and tough but becomes increasingly scenic near the top with views over the valley which are cast into shadow by enormous birds that could be vultures or Eagles, some mad lass reckoned they were Griffins. I have been here for nine months and senses are wavering a bit must disagree with her on this point.
Descend steeply on a rocky trail to the village of Kunol and time for tea and tiffin (not griffin) and try to get more information on the forests ahead. Three times I have been here before and headed off to the next village of Sootol and come back near to tears after roaming round the labyrinth trails in the forests for hours on end looking at the bear pawings on the trees wondering if it is all worth it. This time I get assurances about the trail and the bears and its explained simply I can not go wrong.
I head off into the forest ‘alone” and make good round on what appear to be well worn tracks. Trails split, must be this one and then that one, maybe I could scramble up here for a look that trails looks good….. I am lost, nothing can lead me out of the forest, I pedal along nervously I catch a branch, the plastic bag full of clothes gets dislodged and rolls down a steep landslip, I am edgy and distressed scrambling down the slip for the plastic bag, is this how it all ends??? Fucking ridiculous. Recover bag and fortuitously spot some more tyre tracks can’t be many Mountain bikers out here so must be mine. I follow the tracks the forest becomes less dense a wide path becomes visible I follow that up and I return after an hour or so’s frantic riding back to Kanol. Locals welcome me back with tea, revised directions and offers of a room for the night it is only 2.p.m. I take it.
I stay in the house of Mr Pushkar Singh. The room is simple with a planked makeshift bed and a goatskin blanket to keep me warm. Underneath me is a stable and I can see the buffalos and cows through gaps in the boards contentedly chomping on straw. The reassuring smell of cow shit sends me to sleep that night.

Punctured

I have returned just from the last of this seasons lightweight exploratory missions and it was a tough one. I departed from Khausani about 10 days ago with a plastic bag full of clothes lashed on to my frustratingly small camelback giving me the look of a cycling bag man. I feel worse, I am grumpy I am down to two functioning tubes, the ones on the wheels the spares are held together by multitudinous patches. I can’t get the seat into the right position and my legs have gone, not a good day to have 4 punctures. I sit be the roadside time and time again patching patches on top of patches, the glue oozes out of the tube uncontrollably the sun beats down heating the tubes to a molten mess everything sticks yet won’t stick were it should do. Suncream drips off my foreheadn stinging my eyes. A monkey leap down from a tree to mock me “f@£$ O&*. The monkey bears its teeth.
I arrive in Gwaldam the half way point of the day and it looks like rain its windy and its gone cold. I cheer and abandon for the day. Taking a dormitory bed for the night I am approached by a overweight chain smoking Bengali tourist with family on tow. ‘May I know your name?’ I reply. “I would guess your age at 45.” I am 35 I respond (taking a year off). “But you look older.” He says matter of factly before thrusting forward his half frozen balacalava’d kids I shake their limp hands enthusiastically. I wander across to the nearest the mirror. I don’t look good there is only one choice, one course of action left…. The man spa, the barbers shop, shave, face massage and a complimentary nasal hair trimming. The barber looks young, real young in fact he is 12, flipping eck but he is good. And a thieving git his prices are far too high but it might fund him through secondary school if he goes back.
I return to the dorm that night to find I have been joined by three holidaying Indian couples in there late 60’s. The have readjusted the beds and put all theirs together in a corner mine has been pushed as close to the toilet as close as it can be without being in it. They stay up late. The men playing cards, the women whispering and giggling. The night is a cacophony of burps, farts and toilet visits.

Master and Servant

I lie here in the dark after another power cut; tired, stuffed full of orange creams and tea; after a long hard day in and out the saddle looking for new trails in the small village of Kasar Devi.
Anyhow all that can wait, seismic events have unfolded and I am an Uncle at last to 4 day old Tristan. I am away yet for another 4 weeks a crucial time in young Tristan’s development, Dave and Alice will ensure that he develops an early interest in Mountain Biking but whom will instill in him the virtues of Test Cricket and Liverpool Football Club in my absence? Freddie Truman’s Test Match Cricket Game featuring the kid friendly lead bat can’t wait till June.
Last phase of the Indian General elections tomorrow so expect everything to be shut as the villagers head to the electronic voting booths, a source of much pride here in India as the whole election has been paper free. Could have called the whole thing off as far as I was concerned yesterday. The whole town of Almora was closed off to traffic to accomodate the loading of thousands of these lap top sized machines each with an entourage of election officers onto hundreds of buses to be dispatched around the district. It is estimated that over a thousand villages are without roads and electric so donkeys will have to convey the machines to many of the remote polling booths. But back to me. Effect of the road closures was to force me to walk 3 km though Almora town with my bike bag and rucksacks full of tools and clothes. Agony upon agony, much to the amusement of the gathered election officials. Feel very lobsided today as a result.
The last week or so has thrown up a new experience to me that of having servants at my disposal. The Colonel has returned to Delhi leaving me to man the flat on a couple of occasions. My experience shows me that. Servants are good at making coffee. Like to torture animals when given the opportunity. Like watching T.V. Don,t like to watch their masters drink beer alone (so need to provide beer for servants). Become less interested in making coffee after they have ensured their master hasn’t drank alone. Enough master and servant stuff for now. Jeeves bring me my Chappati’s…..

The Colonel

The rain pours down outside, threatening to fill the Naina lake, I am inside the Colonel’s flat, power lines are down and a flash of lightening lights up the interior to catch the Colonel pouring himself another rum.
I am 4 days into my annual illness and at last feel like I am recovering, the shits in Delhi have morphed into the shakes in Naini Tal. Here; in a terrible and surreal night; I appear to recall umpteen visits by the Colonel with rum in hand hovering over the bed enquiring as to if I would like a peg (measure) or two whilst at the end of the bed his equally drunk employee piling blanket upon blanket on me as if in an attempt to suffocate me. Either way the shaking has stopped and I have some appetite though not for rum at the moment thank you Colonel. (He has just popped round to see if I am o.k).
The Colonel is a brilliant man though prone to drinking a bit too much, army rations provide him with 12 bottles of rum a month which he says is not enough and by the 13th of every month he has to supplement that with supplies from the local liquor shop. The Colonel takes on anybody and anything he sees that he can help like the unemployed post graduate economics genius who is reduced to kitchen hand, making my coffee at the moment or like the savage puppy he recently found/kidnapped tied to a post by the roadside. The Colonel and I watch the pup thirstily lap up a bowl of water Colonel says with mirth “ Look at him once it starts drinking doesn’t know when to stop…. Just like me.”

Horseman

I am back in Delhi. It is 42C outside in the bazaar and I am in my hotel room sweating away, lolling about on the bed trying to shake myself out of a mini illness, my bones are aching and I have a temperature which is understandable. A few glasses of curd and the butteriest of all lentil curries and I am improving a bit so will venture out in while.
Returned here yesterday after a 14 day tour with Pat and Ash from Australia joining me and Rakesh the Nepalli guide. Ran all the lower level trails and then rode back up to the glacier sadly loosing one of our number on the way; Ash; who came off on the last corner of a 1000 metre super tech descent and earned himself a 3 inch gash underneath his right knee which required 10 stitches a few days rest and most impressively of all a chance to ride himself out of the valley on an ageing horse back to the trail head. A French skier rode the bike out of the glacial valley while Ash negotiated the 22 km trail like a veteran horseman on the rocky and times terrifyingly steep path. Even the horse balked a bit at some sections but was forced on by a big stick wielded by the local pony boy.
24 bottles of superstrong beer had been donkeyed in for the 6 days we would spend on the trails leading to the glacier plus one bottle of wine. Takers for the superstrong tipple were small with Pat an almost tee-totaller, Rakesh refused to drink with his new policy of not drinking at altitude, while Ash managed to end up on antibiotics before we could reach the first beer drop. As for me two bottles of superstrong beer each night rendered me almost senseless which isn’t much fun when all around are slurping sugary tea. Eventually locals from the goat-herder to the donkey wallah helped out and enthusiastically joined me in the cause to finish of the two crates of ale and I am indebted to them for that.

Austrian Soloist

The next day the Austrian announces that there too many tourists in the village and intends to embark solo on a camping expedition shunning all forms of human contact on the way reckoning he will be gone for a week. Isolation is liberation is his motto. So armed with an ounce of weed a borrowed tent, musty sleeping bag and thoughts of great climbers in his in his head off he plods.
For me it was another two days in the saddle 1st back up to the Pindari Glacier to check the snow levels on the trails and then head up to the higher and more difficult Kaphne Glacier just under 4000m. Pindari trails were brilliant kilometer after kilometer of singletrack with the odd section of snow and ice blocking the path in the river beds and on the sections not exposed to the sun. I abandoned the bike at the 2km post when the snow got too much and headed up to the Babajii Temple or Business Baba as he is called in some parts for his alleged interest in making a rupee or two out of the odd passing foreign tourist. I snacked on dry chappatis before heading back down the 12km trail to Dwali riding the last 10km leaving a muddy tyre track trail behind me.
At the small trekking hut of Dwali the Austrian reappeared looking confused and miserable ignoring me and the local porters he shuffling off further up the track. For me a nights rest in Dwali and a extra helping off rice and daal I was ready for Kaphne. I left the bike fearing that the near 1500 meter ascent and descent would be too technical. I walked and jogged the 28km trail instead. Nearing the glacier at the top the snow became too deep with the trail disappearing as I nervously resorted to jumping from rock to rock until fear got the better of me and I became more aware of the deepness of the snow. Return time. The path as a descent looked incredible so I vowed to return with the group in a weeks time when the snow would hopefully melt away.
I returned back to Khatti that evening shocked to see the Austrian red nosed, wrapped up in blankets and sipping a hot lemon and even more shockingly open to human contact. How did the camping trip go I asked “I get cold, fever, I did not camp, I stay in trekking hut”. Locals gather round including Prakash the man who lent the tent “Why you take this tent then?” His humiliation is complete. I am happy.

Bank Manager

I am back from the Glacier, bearded, dishevelled and hungry, sat in a restaurant in Almora demolishing a pile of chapattis as the staff look on inquisitively.
A week ago I was lined up outside an A.T.M machine in Bageshwar impatient to depart. That morning's attempt to obtain an Allen key had already set me behind. The small boy at the hardware shop could not understand my request so I asked to see the shops manager, “bank manager?’ asked the boy helpfully. I departed.
A massive crowd had now formed at the A.T.M machine with new A.T.M cards in fancy plastic sheaves in abundance proudly being examined and waved. It appeared that the cards had been issued that morning and all were eager to test them out. Women, as is the way here, formed a separate queue and the men fast tracked them into the front where all seemed equally clueless on how to use the machine. The booth became increasingly crowded with women and helpful men stood around the screen all keen to see how the machine worked. Buttons were pressed, sometimes the right ones, and every 5 minutes or so money was dispensed and yet more women lined up to get to the front. More men came from the street to help things along and even more thronged the periphery to catch a glimpse of the action. I abandoned and decided to budget tightly for the next week or so.
The ride to Loharkhat was pleasant a gentle ride along the river for 40km before the trail climbed in earnest on a steep jeep track to first of the trekking huts. I had carried far too much gear with plastic bags of clothes lashed to the outside of my camel back along with a pair of running shoes giving me the look of a cycling bag man.
I spent the night at the trekking hut in the kitchen shack with a fellow Indian trekker cum journalist who was trekking to one of the most remote polling stations in the country; near the Sunderjunga glacier; in anticipation of the forthcoming general election. The locals smoked hashish and babbled on into the cold night air with many offensive remarks made about the Israeli and Bengali trekkers who would come later on in the season. I objected, I have a soft spot for the little Bengalis.
The next day was a big climb out, 3 hours and a near 1000 m height gain, sections were rideable but on the whole it was one long carry as I ambled up alongside Himar the journalist and his genial guide who appeared keen to lay his hands on the bike and bags and carry them up himself. On the descent the guide got his wish and a I handed him the plastic bag full of clothes to drop off at the next village he appeared a bit surprised with my tactics wondering alloud why I had carried them all the way up.
One 8 km descent followed rockier than I remember and a more unrelenting. Made good time on a traverse to the village of Khatti and was spotted by the swirl of tiny arms and legs that were the village kids who mobbed me and the cycle on arrival. Met up with Himar and the guide and a extremely pleasant German man, and a not so pleasant Austrian man who looked miffed at the attention the cycling had created. "So you’re the crazy man who carries his cycle uh?" Examining the bike he examined it carefully “very basic, you like riding that for me nothing’. Furious. But revenge was to come soon.

Legless Goats

I am returned to India after a week in Khatmandhu. The return leg Delhi was far less arduous than the outward trip with 30 hours of non stop traveling featuring two bus rides and two train journeys bringing me back to Delhi in good time for a couple of beers in the Gem bar.

Managed a day in full day in Delhi then back on the overnight train with bike, spare parts and rucksack full of clothes in readiness for the next 10 weeks of riding in Uttaranchal and the Pindari Glacier tours. Had the misfortune to be in the same compartment as middle aged Indian women who took umbrage at the amount of space my luggage took up. Started shouting as soon a she boarded the train prodding me with her finger ‘police case, police case” as she dragged my bags from under the seat to position her things. Other passengers ignored her and I duly refused to acknowledge her and stared into the distance withdrawing into oneself as the Indians do if something happens that they can’t make any sense of. Realising my vanishing act and refusal to be provoked she soon calmed down and the train plodded serenely on into the night the 270km to the foothills of the Himalaya.

Completed a full week of re recciing and looking at some new trails all seems to be as good if not better than I remember except the weather which has produced hailstones, icy winds and lightening storms that make afternoon riding a bit risky and I am not even back up to the Glacier yet. Locals reckon the storms are uncommon and expect things to improve this week.

5 days now and no beer or alcohol of any kind. I am a living experiment. All expected so made up for it before reaching the village of Khausani famed for being Gandhi’s favourite Himalayan retreat. All that’s good for the Gandhi is not necessarily good for the Goose as they say as he appears to have left a legacy of abstinence behind him so will have to suffer through with the Himalayan views and amazing singletrack for a while instead.

Just finished another short ride through the forests and spotted a left front leg amputee goat which got me thinking jokingly if it had had its leg chopped off to be eaten. My theory seemed to backed up though as three other goats limped through the forest all with the same leg missing. I sat down for a bit hoping for a full flock of legless goats only to see a limping shepherd, himself with a mangled front leg. I questioned him on his policy regarding mutilating goats but he just pointed to the next village grinning madly as a smell worse than that of three legged goats he was escorting escaped from his jacket. I made my excuses and left. Not sure about mutton curry tonight. 3 legs bad 2 legs worse.

Khatmandhu The Hard Way with a bike in a bag and without oxygen.

Hilary, Meschner, Tenzing and Braithwaite probably started the trek like I, here in the Gem bar, New Delhi with a couple of beers, 2 rucksacks and a massive big bag with a bicycle in it. But I did it the hard way.

Doing it the hard way meant eschewing modern mountaineering theory and starting the ascent on the Indian holiday of Holi or the festival of colours with its ancient antecedents. In modern days antecedents have been forgotten and it is a free for all for paint bombers, “eve teasers” and those with a cause against foreign tourists. The rooftops of the narrow streets of PaharGanj make excellent spots for sniper attack of water and paint bombers. For me the best strategy to avoid coming under fire was to lurk under the shelter of the stalls and wait for older women shopping their way down the bazaar whom I could use a human shield to make my way bit by bit to the railway station.

14 hours overnight on second-class sleeper train and I am at Gorakhpur base camp with a chance to acclimatize and stock up on last minute advice and opinion. 15 minutes later I am out. The talk in the camp was that the route ahead was almost impassable and this was the last chance to board the jeep. I wolfed down some energy rich chapattis and potato curry and departed in poor spirits to Camp 2 at Sunauli. Holi festival was still in full flow and revelers high on arrack and bhang were blocking the roads ahead armed with spray paints and sticks. For Hilary it wasn’t thus. But we forged forward into the abyss.

After crossing borders by foot carting the bikes and bags I arrived in Nepal. Here Hilary, Meschner et al would have caught a cab all the way to the top for me no such luxuries existed. Agitating Tribals had blocked the main road ascent over the Sunauli Col and I was forced to attempt the more circuitous and dangerous route via the infamous Pokhara ridge an extra 8 hours and 170km of traveling. Companions were thin on the ground for such a treacherous route but I managed to find a seat on the bus next to man from Blackpool called Dave who had been stained red in the holi revelery. As temperatures plummeted to about 15C outside frozen limbs became a major concern and Dave had to avail a blanket from the surly Sherpas who worked on the bus.

8 hours later we arrive in the dark and inhospitable place that is Pokhara main bus stand here things get worse the oxygen bottles have disappeared and I have lost my wallet. I am livid 3000Rs down and I haven’t had a beer for 3 days. Manage to secure camp on a precipitous ledge ermm lodge and bunker down for the night, change more cash and get a couple of beers but no Kendal mint cake.

The following days conditions look good for the last 6 hour ascent to Khatmandu. 200 km to go and a weather window has appeared it is time to set off with haste. 7 hours later I am annoyed this bus is ludicrously slow it stops innumerable times for no reason apparent. 9 hours in and I am in the death zone with Khatmandhu clearly in view but the bus is stuck in appalling traffic will I ever make it? So many have perished here. The last yards take an eternity; breathing is almost impossible, given the smog. One big final push and we are there the exhilaration is beyond description I am on the roof of the of the world…… errmm bus and that’s that but no, the driver is demanding 200 rupees for extra luggage, no one could survive this; Khatmandhu the hard way.

Rickshaw Safari

6 days ago I was in Munnar enjoying an evening beer in the company of my last guests of the year in Kerala. Now I am 3400Km further North on the outskirts of Delhi as the Rajdhani Express speeds and rattles along the last 50km or so to India’s capital.

Things have moved on at an alarming rate, alarmingly slow in most cases as the 1st trip of the journey was to evacuate all the bikes and kit from Munnar to Kuttikanam. The planned jeep did not arrive. Lucash the junior logistics manager appeared on time in Munnar on time in a Rickshaw already laden with a Toddy (local palm alcohol) fuelled Mr Devas who had decided to join in the 280km Rickshaw joyride. Three bikes, 3 bags and three men were compressed into the tiny conveyance and off we shook on our 5 and half hour journey of misery that would have taken 4 hours in a jeep. Devas soon fell asleep and occasionally was thrust out of the squeeze in the back and cannonball like would thud into Lucash the driver waking up Devas and Lucash at the same time.

In Kuttikanam beers and a lady awaited. The lady was there but sadly the beers that where left from the previous trip had been guzzled down by the greedy staff who one assumes never expected to see me again. 2 beers of the original 9 were eventually tracked down to a hot house round the back saved by some miracle of mismanagement The boiled beer was stuck in the freezer by the helpful staff. An hour later 2 frozen beers were ready to be defrosted before being ready to drink another hour later.

The lady Kim is probably the strongest female cyclist I have ever met and was touring South India at a ridiculous pace; 160km plus days. Managed to cling on to her back wheel for a days mountain biking that finished at lunchtime as we completed my challenging loop in record time.

The next day was spent packing and repacking everything for the train journey to Delhi. 3 cycles and about 40 kg of stuff were to be taken down by jeep (Rickshaws were vetoed) the 220km to Trivandrum. Enough time was left to fix up a bike each for the trainees Sinoj and Chippy to keep up their mountain bike progress this summer. I expect to require more cycle mules next year to airlift spare parts into Kuttikanam

Had a bottle of Brandy night with Lucash and Devas where Devas unaccountably changed his drinking strategies urging moderation in measures and long pauses up to minutes long before quadruple instead of octuple measures where guzzled down.

Jeep drive was pleasant enough and effectively incident free. There was space, comfort and safe driving in abundance. At one stage I almost relaxed and fell asleep. 24 hours in Trivandrum was enough to meet up with some friends, acquaintances and debtors and book the cycles on the train. Managed to retrieve 15000Rs rupees which was good news the other 20000Rs is promised later so happy with that on the other hand it appears that, next year, I am now committed to helping two “small business” businesses, as they are called here.

On the 40-hour train journey I fell asleep.

Tamil Tapas

Munnar.

The coast to coast is over and I am back in Munnar recovering from yesterdays epic ride from Thenni on the Tamil plains back up to Munnar climbing over 2000 meters and cycling 90 k in the process. Massively boosted on the early bit of the climb with 4 extraordinarily beautiful French women pulled alongside in car to cheer me on and do a few “Allez” which caused an upsurge in speed that Lance Armstrong would have been proud of. Didn’t last long though as a whiff off me 800km unwashed shorts and a shirt stained with enough salt to kill off the worlds entire population of slugs became evident and the car sped on with only visions of a black haired beauty attempting to pass me a bottle of mineral water seared into my mind to spur me on for the next 6 hours riding.
The cycle touring was good pedaling through villages apparently untouched by time with strikingly blue kingfishers perched on poles in the endless sea of paddy fields a never ending sight As the legs tired though it was thoughts of that evenings hotel and a few glasses of ale that drove me on. Invariably though days dreaming of some semi luxury hotel to stay in were spoilt by hoteliers claims that they were “houseful” a term delivered with invariable smugness and contemptuousness it was if I was a like beggar being driven from the door. So it was night after night in grim, tomb like misery cells with sandbag pillows and incongruous numbers of light switches that serve no purpose.
The bars in Tamil Nadu though were always open and a bit more well lit then their Keralan counterparts. Beer here is expensive around 115rs a beer but you do get complimentary snacks served out of little bowls a veritable Tamil Tapas if you like. Carrots were sliced, eggs were cut, peanuts, cashews, bits of crackly shit, which tasted like wood, even mini bits of chicken in one place all complimentary with beer. Once you’ve eaten it the waiter waddles round and fills up your little bowls, as a compulsive grazer this was terrible news for me as found myself stuffing pounds of carrots and a years quota of eggs and even bits of wooden tasting shit down on most nights.

Valentines Day Massakka (with thanks to Yasser Arrafatt)

A warm welcome to you all. Events have unfolded at an alarming pace this last week as I have completed the Eastern half of the coast to coast road tour recci and am now in former French colonial territory of Pondicherry nursing myself back to health on some tax free ale. Managed about 600 km in 6 days. Satisfied with the cycling though bit of a shock to be in the saddle for hours on end day on the road.

All started in Munnar with a few more beers in the ice bar where I met up with a lovely lass from Cornwall seemed to get carried away a bit with the company and felt a bit tanked up after 4 Kingfisher escorted the young lady back to a Rickshaw and give her a friendly peck on the cheek for her troubles. A potentially fatal mistake!!! Let me explain.

In this the Age of the Kali Yuga strange forces are at work with the strangest of the malign forces coming in the guise of the Hindu Taliban read on

"Mangalore: Moral policing reared its head again, this time in BJP-ruled Karnataka where members of a right-wing Hindu group assaulted girls in a Mangalore pub, accusing them of behaving in an “obscene manner”. Eyewitnesses said the girls were chased and thrashed by activists of the Sri Ram Sena as they tried to flee from the pub on the busy Balmatta Road in the heart of Mangalore. There were also allegations that some of the girls were molested."

As a follow on to the attacks the groups leaders condemned the Westernisation of Indian culture in particular the rising popularity of Valentines day celebrations. (Given my desultory Valentines day card receivership figures I am all for this) the groups leaders including the absurdly named Mr Pumpwell aim to bring an end to the obscenity by forcibly marrying couples seen cavorting in public on the spot with the aid of a Hindu priest Which brings things back round to me. I could be looking at life on a farm in Lands End with a lovely Cornwallian lass now if I had been spotted.

So the rule here in India now is if you fancy married life just throw yourself on top of any decent unsuspecting lass you fancy in public and hope that Mr Pumpwell and the Priests are looking on at the same time. If they are not you could face a 10 stretch in the Pondicherry state penitentiary. Life's a gamble.

* Massacres aren,t particularly funny but if you have ever heard the word coming out of Yasser Arrafatts mouth you might cahnge your mind.

Liquor Rations

Kuttikanam is a strange place these days from years of familiarity as a quite retreat and village idyll it has turned into a cosmopolitan drop in place for the rich and famous. First up this week the sighting in Devas restaurant of a number of 7 feet tall Nigerians stood dangerously close to the fan asking the diminutive Devas for parothas and egg curry. Investigations revealed that they were students representing a college side from Madras in a basketball competition held at Kuttikanam's Marina College. A cash prize was up for grabs and looking at the rest of the teams competing, all comprised of average sized and average ability local Keralan basketball players it looked like the Nigerian students/mercenaries had this one in the hoop as they say.
In February Kuttikanam hosts the kuttikanam open tennis tournament with a field of over 50 expected to battle it out on the dirt court at Misery Mountains Luxury Plantation Resort. All sounds good but they have booked all the rooms up for that weekend leaving me and my next group looking for somewhere else to stay; this led me to my third discovery. All the other hotels in Kuttikanam are booked up for a month as Malaylee (Keralan) film stars and crew descend on the area to make a couple of films. Disaster.
On a less parochial note there is outrage in the Indian Armed Forces this week as liquor rations have been reduced in a cost cutting measure. Higher ranked army personnel have seen their monthly free quota of bottles of liquor (750ml) reduced from 14 to 12, how will they cope? Jawans or squaddies have suffered even more, now having to survive on a miserly 6 bottles of Rum/ Whiskey etc per month. Good news for Colonels, Admirals and the like though as they can continue to avail unlimited supplies of grog from the military supply store so hopefully military capability won,t be disturbed too much.

Wheel Barrow

Time is running away with us, the pound is worth less than an egg curry and appam, Rakesh has gone back to Khatmandu for a month for RandR and I am here back in Kuttikanam riding myself into the ground as the trainees excel at a phenomenal rate.
A year of my time is worth a day in the lives of mountain bike trainees of Sinoj and Chippy. One day they can hardly get their front wheels off the ground the next they are launching off things and doing front wheel wheelies on the lawns of Misery Mountains Plantation Luxury Resort. Very happy.
Pound is in free fall over here, a wheel barrow of the stuff won’t pay for the bus fare to Ellaparra so its fiscal cut backs and the first thing to go is a room with a T.V, beers are being brought in from outside, nights in the Ice Bar in Munnar look like they will be a thing of the past and I am left to squeeze the bottom of a cut price Indian-made bleaching toothpaste in my bathroom without a shower and ponder upon what the future holds.
360rs up in cards against 70-pint a week Sheffield Mike so thats millions of pounds now.

Jillmon

Morning all. I am in the middle of a tour at present and all is going excellent. I have managed to extricate myself from a morning wildlife park boat trip which I have done about ten times and handed over the thankless task too a slightly grumpy looking Rakesh who had to awake at 5.30 a.m this morning to fulfill his duty. Jillmon the driver cum logistics manager has gone as well and woke us all up at 4.15 a.m as his mobile his faulty. Jillmon, who has a look a paunchy Oliver Reed is reveling in his role as logistics manager and has upgraded himself from the rooms designated to drivers to stay in the same room as me and Rakesh. So its three in tiny room most nights, Jillmon snores at an admirable 9.5 on the snoromical scale while Rakesh refuses to sleep without the fan whirling around full blast, both usually head off to beds before. So I am having to become accustomed to stepping into the nightly pitch black, snoring whirlind that has become my sleep. Managed to turn the fan off one night but this had the effect of Jillmons snoring waking up an angry Rakesh who entombed in sleeping bags and blankets fumed that I was trying to kill him by making him too hot.