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.
