Bare Footing

Pondicherry is synonymous with beer. Had a few last night after meeting a fellow cyclist from the U.K called Gerry who had cycled overland from the UK, somewhat dwarfing my 370km cycling re-recce trip from Madurai. We pedalled the last 40km to Pondicherry in atrocious conditions, rains had swamped the roads with paddy fields turning into one vast lake. Cows, goats and herders had taken to the roads in their masses heading for dry land. We pedaled on, not sure what was road or what was swamp, with thoughts in mind of yesterdays T.V footage of a crocodile in a ditch being poked with a stick by bemused looking farmers.

Today looks difficult. I have hotels to check in Pondicherry then its 100km to Mahhaballapuram for more hotel checks but this times the bike will go on the bus. I plan to leave the bike in a hotel in Mahab in readiness for the 1000 km coast to coast ride in January. In the evening I plan to take the overnight train back from Madras to Kerala to get back for the final route checks for the mountain bike tours.

The bus stand and buses look quite enough but nobody will let me take the bike on the bus so I seek out an important looking man barking out orders over the public address system. A willing bus driver and conductor are found but the bike still has to go on top which makes it awkward as there is no bus stand where I wish to get off, rather passengers just fling themselves off the speeding bus whilst others leap on hoping to grab hold of something secure. Either way I have to get the bike there 1st so I clamber on the roof of the bus loosing my flip flops in the process. I lash the bike to the rack with inner tubes and climb back down the steps. My flip flops have gone. Some bare footed Tamil has scampered off with them. I remonstrate with the conductor who watched the scene and presumably the flip flops disappear but he just shrugs. I flap about a bit and board the bus muttering. I have the bike shoes in the bag so I can use them. It starts to rain, heavy.

100 km on the bus stops for the 1st time on the journey. Passengers start murmuring. This has never happened before. The conductor rings his bell and I assume this is it. I clamber out bare footed into the rain dragging my wheels, bag and bits of debris down from the bus into a puddle on the road. I launch myself up on the roof of the bus, it could go any second, I shoulder the bike down the steps. The rain lashes down the bus roars off. I stand on the road drenched, with belongings in a pile. Sodden goats, escapee's from the floods eye my bag curiously hoping for a nibble. A man sloshes through the waters towards me and with what must be the campest voice in all of India " Hiiieee come and join me under my umbrella."

I am in Mahabballapuram with new flip flops I am wet, tired, out of sorts and look shambolic. Trying to present myslelf at 3* hotels (yes,ohh yes this is a posh tour) as a tour operator on the up will take some convincing to both myself and the hotels.

Ek sau das.

Its that time of year. The migration of the mountain biker, bikes and bags full of nuts, bolts and rusty spanners from the Himalaya to the tropical south, from Darjeeling to Kuttikanam. Many it seems are making a similar journey; judging by the overflowing Kerala bound trains; drawn by the better wages in Kerala over West Bengal, an exodus or ek sau das if you like it which means 110 in Hindi.

I am three hours away from Trivandrum 14 hours into the train journey. Most of the passengers have departed for destinations near India’s Southern Cape leaving nothing more than a few empty plastic bottles and a pool of piss a foot deep in the toilet which is sloshing its way out of the door and into the corridor as I type.

My journey started in Darjeeling almost a week ago in a jeep packed with 9 bikes most of which belonged to our friends from Singapore. 12 sleepless hours overnight in a jeep took me the 600 km Calcutta. 2 days in Calcutta to rest up ( run around like a mad man trying to post forks to U.K (unsuccessful), find an open Indian coffee house (unsuccessful) and get on top of the office work (never successful) left me little time to knock back a few beers and cram down loads of greasy Calcutta style kebabs called rolls.

Now the agonies of real travel. With about 100kg of bikes and parts to be dragged round the subcontinent it presents a logistical nightmare requiring Himalayan mountaineering style numbers of porters. Due to a design fault and an over ordering of materials in Khatmandu 3 years ago one of the bike bags is colossal a car could fit in it, two bikes barely touch the sides. Porters scream in agony as the black bag is hoisted on to their head, cursing the accursed foreigner, for every flip flopped footstep taken monetary demands go up and up, more porters flock to the scene. Just to lay a hand on the bag is deemed sufficient to make a request for rupees. Years of self –(harm)-carrying have laid physical and mental scars so deep that I can watch the scene now with a detached air. Remembering carting 80kg single handedly through a sea of people in 100 degree heat on the steps of death (platform 1 “paharaganj side” to platform 16) remains enough to keep me happy handing out the rupees.

I am back now in Kuttikanam a 5 hour car ride took me the last 220km through roads flooded by rust coloured waters formed by a combination of the late monsoon rains and the clay soils. As we drive it is apparent that everything is under water paddy feels have turned into swamps, palm trees stand above the waters like light houses in the sea, black clad pilgrims wade shin high through the waters on their way to the jungle temple complex of Sabrimalla.

According to the papers 39 people died last year of heart attacks on the trekking path to Sabrimalla out of a pilgrimage number of over 2 million, it doesn’t sound too high but it further claimed that cases of altitude related edema where also diagnosed which seems impossible at an altitude of 480 meters. On this scale Blackstone Edge would be in the death zone.

In At The Deep End.

Hello everyone. I am back on the blog trying to catch up a bit. A thousand stories to tell but the narrator is lazy so persevere with him if you can.

At present I am in Darjeeling on my 27th cup of tea of the day which is the habit here. We are three tours into the season already, god alone knows what has happened with the time. We have another group arriving this Friday in Calcutta so in between preparing for that and doing innumerable tasks in between (eating momo's, drinking a few beers) I will work on the recent history and let you decide if my time has been well spent. So dive in with me. (Excuse the pic and the pun.)

1 hour in Kurseong

I am in Kurseong near Darjeeling waiting in the bank to make a deposit into an unknown account. It is nearing 2.pm the bank is eerily quiet. I stand at counter number 4 as instructed. The bank clerk taps his glasses as he sees me, he looks up then looks down, folds away his stationery and quietly shuffles out of his booth. He is the last one to go. It is lunch hour.

An hour to kill in Kurseong. Everything is either a vertical walk up or down here so decide on a steep climb in search of more food. I enter the 1st eating house I see in search of Momo's (kind of mini steamed steak puddings and healthy) its rice only in here though served with meat. I ask for Pork which is only served in India's mountainous areas. The lumps of pork fat arrive in a watery gravy. For reasons best known to India's pigs there is no such thing as meat in a subcontinental pig, just pure fat. The pigs I have seen look like most normal pigs but underneath there is nothing but a flimsy skeleton held together by 100% fat. I would like to have said that an India pig has the same fat content as , say, a famous English celebrity but I can't think of any famous fat knackers any more. In the past we had 1930's goalkeeper Fatty Foulkes then Cyril Smith and then Rick Waller, famous fat git celebrity folk, famous for being fat. Now we have nobody, no fat knacker that is seared into the nations consciousness as a fat blob to which we can compare things now we have only a infinite number of mediocre obese lumps of lard. If any inflated blimps are reading this there is vacancy somewhere in the nations psyche for you. Your country needs you or at least I do.

30 minutes later I have finished the meal and I head back down the slope to the bank I sight a barbers shop a shave would be perfect. I settle back into the barbers and scan the pictures on the wall as the tiny man sets to work with his soap and brush. The walls are adorned with unsettling pictures of modern day body builders along with a black and white montage of a considerably less bulked up individual. I enquire. It is the barber himself I am being shaved by a shrunken though still ramrod straight Mr Kurseong 1976. My eyes avert from the walls and look at my face being rapidly unveiled of soap suds in the mirror. Someone once said you get the face you deserve at 50, not sure what I will have done to deserve mine at 37 even. The light is harsh, the mirror no friend to the customer here, but my falling chops and vertically challenged face looks like it needs scaffolding to support itself. Grim times lie ahead.

I return to the bank. The staff are quietly returning to the booths. Queues form quickly. An hour has passed.

Buy This Man A Drink

I am back in Delhi and ready for a short mid season break back in the U.K. The last 24 hours have been a whirlwind so I will finish the blog for a bit with a day in the life of a Indian Mountain Bike guide aged 37 and a bit.

05.30 a.m wake up to the sound of the temple bells in a very cold lakeside room in the hill station of Naini Tal. Feel a bit groggy after 4 bottles of beer last night. Last days ride today so pull out the last remnants of my festering, crumbling patched up cycle clothes. Carry the patched up, crumbling Specialized Enduro down the steep steps and I am on the bike creaking up the 40-minute 400-meter climb to Snow View.

08.30 I am at Snow view a bit breathless as its 2300m up here. Slurp down three cups of tea and a packet of milk cream biscuits. The bike looks quite good in the crisp; cool morning light leaned up against a wall. A few craggy faced locals gather round the bike squatted down on their haunches, smoking, looking wiser than time itself. “motorbike” ventures one. I drop down the seat hurtle down the top of the track before slamming on the brakes as first a donkey mooches across the trail followed by a non-plussed horseman waving a big stick either in anger or showing me the way.

09.00 I am at the bottom of the trail it is brilliant. Its wide, fast with loads of rock features to launch off all through thick forest. The trail now traverses above a side valley; narrow singletrack with a huge exposed drop one the right hand side; incredible; its 2km of this then the trail drops down trough the villages crosses a stream innumerable times and then it’s a superfast trail with loads of rocks. About 9 km of pure downhill and traversing.

10.30 I am back I NainiTal after a 1-hour road ride back. Gobble down super oily allu parothas the breakfast of champions. Head back to the hotel for an hour or so on the rooftop packing up and wading trough a black bag of broken bike parts, god alone knows why these have been brought the 3500km from Kerala, on trains, on my back, up hotel stairs, where is all the good stuff?? Massive shopping list on my return.

14.00 Invited round to Pankaj’s house for lunch. Pankaj a genial, enthusiastic if at times slightly manic young man feeds me from his mothers kitchen for a non stop eating fest, chicken piece upon chicken piece, rice upon rice, daal poured upon daal. I am full so now its time to start eating proper more dishes come out I fear this could be my last meal.

16.00 After dragging my puffed up stomach back up the super steep climb towards Nainital’s Zoo I make a quick visit to the legendary colonel’s house where I spent a month or so last year. He is in good form, the whiff of rum exudes form every pore. An “artist” is here. He also appears to enjoy a tipple he cuts an incongruous figure for an artist, the lenses are so thick on his glasses that they sit half an inch in front of his nose. The work done so far doesn’t look promising the word Brahmap u t r a h suggests the rum has taken effect. His next project looks ambitious. A full wall has been given over to the artist with the intention to paint a full panorama of the Himalaya copied from a photograph. The colonel is mirthful. I head back down the stairs from his terrace and spot two full size female mannequins one in Indian dress and one in foreign garb on the balcony above. What the ?? They are here to welcome people says the colonel.
20.40 I am on the train. Should be in Delhi at 04.00. I am 2nd class sleeper back to my natural home in economy class, it becomes cold as the train rattles along the 240km to Delhi.

04.30 I am in Old Delhi station its is still dark. The platforms are awash with a sea of blanketed; snoring bodies there are 1000’s sleeping here. Out in the streets it could be any time at night, its incredibly busy, chaii stalls are in full flow, rice is being served, rotis are being slapped onto to the side of the glowing Tandoor. I decide to take a short walk on the way back to my hotel through the flower market which is just opening up, buyers huddled up in the morning chill, gather round the flowers, as porters carry bundles on their heads to the waiting cycle rickshaws. I clamber on to back of an empty cycle rickshaw and ask the rider to take me back to Paharganj and my hotel. He waves his hand as I ask him the price, not a good sign. 20 minutes later I am here. I get down into the increasingly busy street and offer the puller 40Rs, a generous sum. He looks aghast and wrestles by rucksack back off me feigning to throw the money away, this I take to be a good sign, he has not thrown himself at my feet or looked likely to block the road by lying across it I rescue my rucksack and dart into the crowd its 05.30.

Macho Casanova

I am in a shop. I have a terrible decision to make. In front of me are two cans of deodorant. The only cans of deodorant left in the shop. I am in desperate need. Rakesh’s goat snipes are wearing thin. The choice is this; Casanova, in a nice black can, would cover the smell of a dead goat easy, or Macho, stronger smell would probably kill a goat. The shopkeeper is impatient, what would you go for????

I am a Macho man.

Rode with a great group these last ten days 2 Canadians handy riders, very fit and two Mucovite superfast downhillers. We rode the Top Station descent yesterday. A 30km empty road tarmac climb up through genuine travel brochure beauty. Then its 12 km downhill dropping around 1700 meter to the dusty little settlement of Korangani. The descent is unbelievable, 3 km of swooshing superfast singletrack, then it’s a barely visible rutted path through endless lemon grass before a quick coffee shop stop at Middle station the former half way point on the old ropeway route that transported all the tea from the Munnar hills to the railhead at Body then through to the coastal port of Tuticorn.

After coffee its rock garden after rock garden, super tight stone strewed switchbacks, jump after jump and sustained techi downhilling for around 30 minutes. The Ruskie’s loved it the Canadian’s said they enjoyed it. For me it was a last chance to bring out the creaking lump of a bike that is my 04 Enduro. It clunked, grinded, sludged, battered and occasionally with uncharacteristic grace it danced over the odd rock in the dust stream of Evgeny and Igor, I a helpless passenger. It will hate me for this but a shiny new Iron Horse 6.4 awaits me in two weeks time will the Enduro turn against me? Its got 7 more days to do it’s best.

Devas

I sit here in Kuttikanam in the tree house, the flags of Misty Mountain Resort gently billow in the breeze. Across the road is the house of Devas, famed restauranter, comic genius, father of four close friend of mine and probably well known to all of you. I have to announce sadly that he is no more, he died last week. One week ago, here in Kuttikanam we were having a few brandies and beers with Devas, Lucosh, Rakesh our new friend Mike. It was the last we were ever to see of Devas. The following morning he walked back to his shop at 5.30 a.m as was his daily routine to read a selection of the local papers before opening the shutters of his restaurant to his customers. He died of a heart attack at his desk whilst reading. All here in Kuttikanam will miss him.

Underneath the sadness many great memories remain one, most recently, in his restaurant. Another guest Jamie; with probably the most well spoken accent I have ever heard; was asking Devas for more Parrotha’s and curry. Devas feigned bemusement and said ‘ your English is very difficult to understand here only everyone knows Michaels’ English” grinning encouragingly as I translated the perfect Queens into a mumbling mix of broad Northern and mis –pronounced Malayli words.

Blind Faith

We have all been looking at the skies these last few days here in Kerala stars, eclipses, Magarajoti’s the lot.
The highlight of the Sabrimalla pilgrim season here in Kerala; which has seen an estimated 50 million pilgrims (with perhaps 48 million of those pausing for a urine pass against the walls of the once pristine, once busy and unfortunately positioned restaurant of Avenue Relish in Kuttikanam) make the trek through forest paths to the remote temple complex; is the Magarajoti. The big light. The bare footed, black clad pilgrims undergo a series of penances for 40 days, full vegetarian diet, no shaving, pure thoughts, and no sex with the missus before entering the temple complex for a darshan or viewing of the Lord Ayappa. Many walk from their homes in the neighbouring states of Tamil Nadu or Andhra Pradesh carrying a coconut wrapped up in a sheet as an offering. 100’s of miles on baking roads the pilgrims trudge, camping and eating by the roadside as they go. Others, perhaps less devote, travel by bus or jeeps adorned with flowers and idols, trekking the last section of the path where they queue for 12 hours or more. As the pilgrim season nears an end Lord Ayappa appears in light form from deep in the forests near Sabrimalla. We joined thousands of others on the hill top of Perunthumpara with tens of thousands camped out on other hillocks to witness the scene. Pilgrims banged drums and chanted as sunset approached, free tea was distributed (unknown to me or I would have pints of the stuff), the first star of the night became visible, excitement followed a second star was pointed out by thousands of outstretched hands. Atmosphere reached fever pitch and then the lights became visible just below the horizon Ayappa’s name echoing into the cool night air sung by a thousand voices.
The next day we were back on the bikes and back at Eagle Rock, Perunthumpara. Para meaning rock with Perunthum meaning eagle. This time we looked to the skies through sunglasses, squinting, flashing a furtive glance at the sun, risking blindness and disappointment for a view of the eclipse. The skies darkened, crowds gathered and ice cream vans followed provided the solution to a safe sighting of the eclipse. The roofs of the ice-cream vans were quick plastic with the view of the still burning but mooned over sun clearly visible. Mr. John’s Ice Cream van was popular but others preferred to view the eclipse through the prism of a red tinged Skiys Ice cream van roof, a few more intrepid types headed over to Lazis cones and ices to view the eclipse in green. All are now blind. Errm hopefully not

Alliance Invited

Hello all.

Will start the New Year with a marriage, that is an invitation for alliances spotted in one of the Indian English dailies yesterday.

BEATIFULL, U.S.A EDUCATED, MAYLAYLI GIRL
SEEKS ALLIANCE FROM WELL EDUCATED
HANDSOME MALAYLI MAN OF GOOD FAMILY.
GIRL SUFFERS FROM MILD SKIN AILMEMENT
PREVENTING INTIMACY
NO HOMOSEXUALS PLEASE.

We are back in Munnar at present, me, 70 pint a week Sheffield Mike and Rakesh. Our Christmas coast to Coast ride had to be unfortunately cancelled as one of our team Lilly Ruffle, veteran Australian cyclist took a bit of a tumble requiring hospital treatment in Singapore so all the family have left Indian shores.
As such we abandoned the tour much to the relief of our new driver Binoy who appeared to be living in a nightmare for the last week. Tamil Nadu was virtually unknown to the smart looking little driver from the Keralan plains. For the whole trip he appeared not to know a single road, suffered terrible anxiety every time he parked up, expected the police to seize the vehicle at any time and was worried to grey haired misery when asked to drive through the mini state of Pondicherry. Once it was clear he was heading back to his garage and we found some road signs back to Kerala he was transformed into a speeding, horn happy, homeward bound driver from hell his hairregaining its darker hew by the minute.
Jillmon our usual driver joined us for New Year. He was on a different tour with a group of Indians now residing in New Zealand. He appeared ecstatic to see us complaining of the unearthly quiet of the N.Z tour group. A talkative, excitable man by nature he appeared to be keen to squeeze as much talk and brandy based excitement into the evening as possible, simultaneously holding conversations on his mobile and with us at the same time. An hour or so of this mixed in with half a bottle of brandy had its effect and he ground to a halt, staggering back to the room a snoring, grinning sleep-muttering happy man.