Mountain Biking India

Fast Until Death

2011-12-14T04:09:00.000-08:00

Kerala is in a panic at present over fears that the Mulliperiyar Dam, built in the high ranges might collapse. The dam, situated in Kerala is over 100 years old and holds water for the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu and comes under their jurisdiction. If the dam fails its water will spill down through Kerala with varied apocalyptic predictions of how much damage that might cause. Tamil Nadu stands to loose its water only.

The debate has raged for years but has come to a head recently after a series of earthquakes up to 3.4 of the Richter scale that some say have weakened the Dam’s structure. Kerala wish to build a new dam whilst lowering the water in the existing structure to make it safer until a new dam is built. Tamil Nadu believe the water level is already too low and the dam can take more water and is sufficiently strong to withhold whatever forces of nature throw at it. Lowering the level further would compromise their agricultural heartlands. Protests have come in the form of strikes, human chains and hunger strikes and fasts until death. At this stage little progress appears to be being made to come to some form of compromise between the two states that, until recently, have had excellent relations. A small point here on the nature of hunger strikes and fast until death and a few other terms.

Words. In India there are a few words that stretch the very definition to make them almost meaningless.

Hunger strike. A tactic used by many politicians and those with a cause. Used properly it can be an effective tool to attract attention to an issue and mobilise public opinion. A hunger strike suggests not eating for a sufficient amount of time to threaten ones health. In many cases in India it means a fast from breakfast to dinner or in some cases a chain hunger strike were people swap round to pop out for something to eat. A fast until death might mean skipping an evening meal as well.

The word pint commonly used as a measure of about 550ml. Many bars in Delhi for example have a drinks card with the word pint written on it. You order a pint and you get a 330ml bottle of beer. In the Kerala liquor shops the same redefinition is in place with all and sundry lined up asking for the mandatory “brandy pint” and walking away happily with their 330ml bottle wrapped up in newspaper or secreted inside a lungi to be demolished in two swigs at the first opportunity.

Before running a marathon in India it is best to ask how long the race is. Marathons come in all distances here 5km, 10km, 20km, two laps round a paddy field, half marathon sized marathons and occasionally even marathon distance marathons.

Resort. A resort suggests a beautiful beach or a secluded 5 star luxury retreat. A quick look round the hill tea-towns of Kerala and every run down, shambolic, half demolished, half built 3^rd rate hotel claims to be a resort (hotel itself is a food establishment, walk into a place with the word hotel asking for a room and you are likely to be asked to sit down and be served a milky tea and an egg curry) Usually taking ludicrous names like Whispering Pine Woods, Mist Filled Farm House Resorts, Lovedale Cottages etc etc.

Deluxe The word deluxe has lost all meaning, anything can be deluxe usually a byword for rubbish. Hence luxury-bus usually means a death trap on wheels. A super-deluxe bus is now synonymous with a bus made by Volvo. So Volvo bus can mean a you have actually booked a ticket on a Volvo bus but more likely any old bus with a Volvo sticker on the front sometimes spelt Volva or Vulvo or worse.

Yesterday I then ran a marathon then drunk a pint of brandy. In the evening I fasted until death before taking a luxury bus to my resort. Discuss…

Compensation For Camels

2011-10-21T03:38:00.000-07:00

Another magic mountain bike tour up to the Pindari Glacier is over now its back down to the heat of Delhi and the most difficult job shifting all the bikes on to the next destination for the Himalaya Singalila Ridge Tour.

Delhi railway station and its time to book the bikes on to the train. We have 4 bikes to transfer the near 2000km to Darjeeling. There are two of us here, so with the help of a porter we manage to relay the bikes through the Diwali season festival rush, by-pass the airport style security set up with a friendly wave and make it on to platform 16 and the luggage booking compound. Boxes, motorbikes, cartons, crate of ever size and descriptions are piled high seemingly at random to be dispatched to all corners of India. I stand patiently at the back of the paper waving, shouting scrummage that is the booking window and I am rewarded with my papers being snatched away by an official who carries them through to the office. I am ushered forward through the crowd who appear quite content for me to be given preferential treatment. Smiles greet me from all sides. I pay up at the counter managing to get past the previously unheard of “one cycle one man” Indian Railways Rule by informing them that the bikes are in bags and we have 4 bags rather than 4 cycles. “That will be fine sir” I then pass back through the cheerful parting crowd that waits till I am at a safe distance then resumes its well-rehearsed scrummage.

Intrigued by the one man one cycle rule I read the small print on the back of the luggage receipt and come across some other little known rules. For example the maximum compensation claimable for damage or loss is limited to 150Rs per kilo so that values the bikes at less then £40 each. Furthermore loss of donkeys, mules and horses are valued at 1500Rs, if the Indian Railways manage to loose your Camel in transit then their liability is limited to a paltry 3500Rs. If your Elephant disappears from the luggage van of the Malabar Express then expect the railways to pay out no more than 7000 Rupees. All there in black and white on the back of the ticket.

The train arrives in New Jailpugari 5 hours late on what must be the worst, filthiest rolling stock belonging to Indian Railways. Second Class Sleeper. (NOTE TO POTENTIAL CUSTOMER. I promise we won’t put you though this it’s 1st Class only for you). I arrive on the neon light lit platform looking and feeling like a miner who has just escaped from a month long entombment in a pit. Bikes are here, papers are signed, more papers are signed, and we are off into the sweltering dark and our hotel for a beer or two and a good scrub up.

Bones

2011-08-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

A bit new to this blogging while I am not in India but with a bust collarbone stopping me from doing anything much of interest I can share my ennui with you all.

Ten things that a broken collarbone has taught me.

It can make you obsessive. Seem to spend most of the day feeling the broken part in fear that it might come apart again at anytime.

I am obsessive, obsessive enough to make lists about 10 things that a broken collarbone has taught me.

Bonegunge. In the first week of broken misery, be careful not to accelerate your heart beat (so stay off the exercise) otherwise the precious healing material that medics called bonegunge will be washed away from the broken bit of your bones and you won’t ever stick back together again. Now they tell me.

Stay of the ale. Ale stops bonegunge and general healing. Late to learn this one. 4 weeks in and just learnt that and now it’s too late.

Erecting a cycle turbo trainer with only one arm is very difficult. As most users of turbo trainers presumably can only use one arm (no one would use them if they did not have a broken collarbone) manufacturers should take this into consideration.

Use of a turbo trainer for more than 1 hour a day 7 days in succession could be seen as signs of obsessive behavioural patterns.

Having a day off the turbo trainer turns you to drink and list making.

Joke of the week. When joining a broken collarbone online help group I was asked for a password of 8 characters so I went for Snow white and the 7 dwarfs.

Bradley Wiggins is in storming form in the Vuelta and he broke his collarbone about 8 weeks ago.

I am not Bradley Wiggins.

In the shadow of a 3-foot drop off

2011-08-15T08:03:00.000-07:00

Dust rose up in mini plumes from the wheels of the bike in front. sweat dripped down from our helmets clinging onto our chins for a brief pause before being deposited onto the top tube as we crested the climb. The view from the saddle had never looked more promising. Clear blue skies, dry trails, a whole summer of riding possibilities opened up before us as did a long singletrack descent packed full of tight corners, rocks and a little bit of air. We descend. A techi drop in then a fast carving left then oops got this wrong. Thud. And so the summer stopped in the shadow of a three-foot drop off.
I gingerly pull myself up causing an unsettling grinding sensation somewhere under my chin. I quickly lay back down again on the sloping stony surface. My riding comrades John and Scott hover over me, running through the 1st aid drills whilst I lay prone. John calls an ambulance, which puts paid to any thoughts of walking down the mile or so off the moor to the local pub and working out a plan over a pint.
There is nothing else to do but stare at the sky, take in the warm sunshine, berate myself for stacking, field questions on how do you feel and wait for help. Which I guess is plenty to keep me occupied. Being in a remote spot it is the mountain rescue who comes to my aid. They are led by a calm, assured, cheerful fell running doctor, who quickly assesses the scene and runs through exactly what I’ve done to get in to this spot. The rest of the team arrive, huffing and puffing a little but they have the excuse of carrying a stretcher. After 10 minutes of pinching, prodding and probing questions like “what’s your age?” aimed at establishing signs of mental clarity; a rare psychological state at the best of times for me; we all concur that I am probably of low IQ and that it is nothing worse than a broken collarbone and bashed ribs. Given the option of being carried off the moor on a stretcher doesn’t appeal. The mountain rescue team are more concerned with my health than my humiliation but I can’t live this down; being carried off; unless both legs are broken. Talk of a stretcher has a galvanizing effect though ,and with a fair bit of help I am up off the floor, a bit shaky and dizzy, but good enough to walk. My left arm is slinged and more checks are done to make sure I am o.k. and good to make it off the moor on two legs. I begin to plod slowly at the head of a slightly comical looking procession comprised of a slinged up man, a sprightly, sure footed doctor, a stretcher team carrying an empty stretcher, two mountain bikers pushing bikes and a helpful young walker who had attached himself to my bike in the hope of riding it back down into the valley. The plod accelerates into a faux-jaunty walk that fools no one but myself before returning back to a more appropriate sedate plod as we approach the ambulance. I can’t be looking too good for the ambulance. I already feel like a fraud almost wishing the injuries were worse to justify all this help.
30 minutes in the ambulance and the fraud feelings are eased away by a combination of pain caused by the rough road and an understanding mountain bike enthusiast ambulance crew.
Arriving at accident and emergency in an ambulance appears to have the effect of an upgrade and I am whisked straight through to a nurse who also mountain bikes and then x-ray. I barely getting a chance to view the casualties in casualty watching Casualty on T.V. An episode featuring a small boy cycling towards an enormous truck doesn’t look promising.
In the x-ray room a burly man approaches “mountain bike?” “mountain bike”..,“wrist”..., “collarbone”..., “suchandsuch woods...” ‘Hebden...” “roots...” “drop off." Two broken monosyllabic mountain bikers commiserate.
I am out of X-RAY and its time to wait a while for the results and a doctor. Its busy now in the casualty waiting room, a man walks in dressed in his cricket whites looking frantic maybe looking for somebody, the mountain biker sits still as if in a trance, I am sat down still unchanged from my days ride complete with knee pads. A burly man with a decided whiff of ale on his breath sits next to me and leans in conspiratorially “been playing football lad?” I am rescued by my name being called out and I am through to a doctor who quickly tells me my collarbone is indeed broken. Another nurse puts on a new sling and says he will be riding tomorrow after his shift which makes me think of a made up statistic that should be true. 76% of NHS staff are keen mountain bikers.
I step outside the hospital and wrestle the phone from my pocket with my one free hand hoping to get a lift back home. By some appalling twist of fate a fly is waiting, literally in the wings, to play his part in the story. Here he comes zooming in to sight and into the back of a hospital-dried throat. Ribs and collarbone creak in unison, an agonizing half-cough is all I can muster. I can’t speak and can’t cough the fly up. I am back inside the hospital desperate for some water anything to stop me making the effort of another cough. The receptionist thinks something is seriously wrong before realizing I just need water. The obstruction is shifted but the voice doesn’t come back for days. Making me sound ridiculously weak.
And now a week on the blue skies have gone, the bike sits in the garage looking forlorn with a scuffed seat. It usually sits in the garage looking neglected with a scuffed seat so nothing new here. Bones heal as I sit about reading mountain bike magazines with my effected weak voice accepting and turning down offers of coffee and tea. In my case falling off the bike resulted in nothing too serious but as ever the Mountain Rescue, Ambulance staff, and doctors do a 1st class job, getting me out of a bad spot, from the shadow of a three-foot drop off and on to the road to recovery. As for hospital nursing staff 64% say they prefer treating mountain bikers to any other casualties.

Freezer Box

2011-03-27T01:21:00.000-07:00

3500 km. That is the distance between Kuttikanam and Nainital. Replacing tropical mountains, cast of half mad characters, easy nights with a few beers and the cracking bike trails of the south with the Himalayan foothills, cast of madder characters, easy nights with a beer….same, same but different.
For a once a in a lifetime experience (3rd time now) I took the 1st class train mainly to secure the safe passage of the double bike bagged cycles rather than risking booking them in the brake van under a pallet load of mangoes. With a 1st class ticket you can do as you want. So the bikes, tool box, bag of bike parts and a rucksack full of clothes were all squeezed on board.
Everthing in 1st class is on a grander scale, there is more space, beds are bigger, food comes in three courses, fellow passengers are bigger and fatter, there are more attendants and their demands for bribes are equally on a grander scale. 3000Rs was demanded for the “heavy luggage” a 1st class fee, for what? I asked. “Booking fee”. 100 Rs in lower classes normally secures a full berth for an enormous bag. I just ignored the demands and dragged the bag into the carriage resisting any offers of paid or unpaid help. This act of lower class rebellion coupled with my decidedly 2nd class dress and quite possibly 3rd class unreserved, feverish, every man for himself mad eyed look seemed to quell the ambitions of the attendants until 2000Rs? A voice rose up, an attendant appeared from behind the bag who must have attached himself limpet like and unnoticed to the baggage and as a consequence been dragged into the carriage alongside my belongings. .
For the 36 hours in the 4 bed a.c freezer box carriage I had few companions. The 1st night had one more passenger who left early morning, late for his stop. The driver whose job it seems was to enter the train, wake him up, pack his clothes and carry the cases off the train was late. There was some shouting and banging on doors, phones ringing, a man entered the room in the dark. Swearing, screaming, volleys of abuse the two men swept out of the carriage in a bundle it was too late the train was moving, more shouting, a cord pulled, the train grinds to halt, passengers scramble down on to the track watched by a seemingly unperturbed ticket inspector, perhaps this is common in 1st class.
For the rest of the journey its pleasant, the carriage shakes along at around 70k an hour heading for Delhi, I am fed, previously recalcitrant attendants switch track from the get rich quick scheme to ingratiating smiles, bows and supplicant hand gestures the battle for tips has now beguin.

Bare Footing

2010-12-05T04:36:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-11-23T21:12:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-10-30T00:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-27T04:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-12T02:39:00.000-08:00

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

2010-03-01T03:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-10T05:37:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T01:57:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-08T02:15:00.000-08:00

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.

The Gynecolgist.

2009-11-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-11-18T19:50:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-17T00:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-17T03:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-08T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-08T02:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-08T02:28:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-01T06:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-31T03:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-13T02:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-29T06:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-29T06:31:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T05:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-30T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-16T01:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-07T22:12:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T00:24:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-02-12T03:10:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-31T00:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-27T00:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-17T01:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Too Busy

2008-12-22T03:41:00.000-08:00

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%$#@

2008-11-25T02:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-18T02:27:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-16T02:45:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-11T00:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-28T00:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-07T06:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-26T06:23:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-05-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-16T06:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-05T01:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-26T04:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-04T06:13:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-31T00:38:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-14T04:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-07T07:07:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-02-21T04:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-08T05:26:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-23T01:47:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-17T23:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-05T00:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Apartheid

2007-12-22T21:13:00.000-08:00

Been a long time getting back to the blog and must do better otherwise will loose my readership, Simon ? All been incredibly busy with the arrival of Sir John Bushby and the Canadian Gavin who both enjoyed a 10 day mountain biking trip. Highlights including Gavin managing to master the Malayalam word for blood "rectum"; of which his legs and arms seemed to provide an endless supply; much to the concern of the locals; and Sir John Bushby breaking down linguistical and national boundaries when coming to terms with an unrelenting verbal assault from a 70 year old, Shakespeare quoting, psychotic, ex Indian railway-ticket inspector with a "very pleased to meet you sir".
Moved to the beach for Christmas and the sands of Varkalla to join the rest of the fisherman pant wearing, banana pancake munching yoga obsessed Christmas crowd. Christmas day on the beach witnessed apartheid back in fashion with a big rope splitting the beach in half guarded by a few policemen stopping the Indian crowds from mixing with the Europeans. Enraged at this I carry the beach towel to the native side of the rope hoping to encourage the pulling down of these racist barriers that divide nations and minds. My high mindedness creates a stir as I am surrounded by the Indian crowds puzzled by my revolutionary actions, they happily point to the other side of the rope as a bit of sand more suited to the tourist. I stay my ground before heading for a swim ripping my shorts in the surf.

Bottom Brackets And The Forces of Evil.

2007-12-05T05:03:00.000-08:00

I have moved back to the spiritual home of mountain biking in Kerala the XXX Hotel in K#$@!! a 130km and 4 hour drive away from Munnar unless the drive shaft falls off half way and needs 9 men to fasten it back together again.
Here things seem to be in the balance as well as my hotel appears to changed ownership in recent days. My friend and hotelier Mr %$#!* has been usurped by his business partner the evil Mr S%#@$ who apparently has a string of convictions going back years and across seas including a spell in Saudi Arabia's worst prison for making illicit alchohol.
Staff at the XXX Hotel are also suffering, with a a watchfull eye kept over all the workers. Things look intolerable with things coming to head at morning coffee time. The usual charade of black coffee arriving in the form of milk tea, sugar added indiscriminately where non was asked for, orders being forgotten or arriving unprompted has been replaced by a chilling efficiency. However, thankfully, this morning a pot of indeterminable tea/coffee arrived suggesting, perhaps, all is not lost.
Anyhow according to my sources Mr %$#!# the XXX Hotel has fallen into the forces of darkness and I am being requested to look for alternative lodgings. On a positive note prices have dropped and I might have to live with the evil and efficiency for a while.
On a biking note three bottom brackets have been discovered to be worn out at all the same time. Is there something to be read into this ??? Or am I neglecting my cycle maintenance ???

** Names and places have been altered to protect myself.

Bed Tea For The Russians

2007-12-01T06:04:00.000-08:00

The half demolished hotel has been busy recently. It started 2 nights ago when I was informed that a group of English tourists where coming to stay for two nights and as they were paying more than me I was to be shifted into the decaying dormitory from my purported "deluxe luxury room". The group arrived at almost midnight and I was awoken to greet the English mob from the bus on their arrival. I objected but the pleading worked and I pottered out into the cold evening air to witness a group of bikini topped and mini skirted blond lasses accompanied by hard looking goatee bearded man. The Russians had arrived. They requested food I told them there was non. They asked for Coffee the manager informed them "only bed tea available".
Two days of bed tea for the Russians then another group arrived. I was informed that all rooms were full and I could sleep in the office. The group arrived; 65 medical students from Nagpur along with an entourage of tour guides teachers and cooks all to be squeezed into half a hotel with only 9 double rooms and a dorm for 6 The teachers objected to the arrangements which meant they would share a room with the cooks; who in turn objected to then being foced to share with the tour guides. As such my room was seized by the militant teachers and I was to be shifted again this time to the staff quarters with the unlucky mans bed being the cleaner who had to kip in the corridor.

Mission Munnar

2007-11-29T02:57:00.000-08:00

There is a perennial cloud hanging over Munnar at present even though the skies are azure blue there is a mood of uncertainty in the air as Mission Munnar threatens to restart in earnest.
Mission Munnar is the ruling communist parties attempt to clean up Munnar and stop the illegal building that has sprung up on the nearby tea and cardamom estates which are by law only to be used for that sole purpose. Attempts to bulldoze down the encroachments started over the summer and in a sinister twist buildings owned or linked to the previous Congress ruling party were targeted first as was my long term hotel stay which had the misfortune to be built a little to close to the National Highway and was on the way back from the bulldozers real target, so a bit of overtime saw that half of it was demolished and in Indian style the remaining bit still runs as a hotel.
Locals protested, court orders where invoked and mysteriously Inspector Singh (ex flying squad) popped back up to the Punjab claiming his mother was suffering from an ailment, now he is back in town with his map full of big back crosses and the bulldozers are expected to roll back into town soon.
On a more positive note had a super 4 hour ride this morning and dicovered yet another cracking downhill through a tea estate that I had previously been barred from, no sign of the watchman these days and the new ruse of saying " I am looking for elephants" usually apeases even the most jobsworth Indian Security men who will usually give you tips on where in the previously out of bound tea estate you should look for them.

Thirst past the post.

2007-11-28T03:14:00.000-08:00

Late with this as I have been rushed off me flip flopped feet this last 6 weeks with the success of me mountain bike tours of Kerala.
Anyhow in internet cafe dying of thirst so will be brief and do not want to miss me mandatory pre sun set ale in the infamous and widely maligned Ice Bar here in the Keralan tea capital Munnar.
Too much to tell and probably not worth telling but for those who followed progress last here have run two groups of mountain bikers through the tea covered iddyllic Iddukki district and all have enjoyed it. Fears of unrideable descents on trails of pure green slime proved unfounded as the 6 months of almost continous rain subsided a few days after I returned.
Highlights. All from Singapore and Uncle Jim Metcalfe the worlds best town plannner and freely available at reaonable rates for all your town planning requirements.
Low life. Bars been closed on the 1st of every month to stop the government workers from spending all their cash on brandy in one night.

Think that covers 6 weeks quite nicely.

Last Post

2007-07-09T09:42:00.000-07:00

All. I have returned from my mountain bike travels and travails and I am back in Rochdale for my 3 month summer holidays. A few posts have not made it on yet but will update them as I get time. Will be back up and running and improved in early October when I return to India to start up in readiness for my first mountain bike Kerala group of the year of the 2007/2008 season. To my readership of 1 Simon Lill, I thank you very much and will be on the phone to speak to you soon.

Bleached

2007-06-04T06:41:00.000-07:00

Head out to the only cycle shop in India that knows what it is doing and miraculously manage to pick up a disc rotor, looks thick, weighs the same as the bike but it works and that along with a chunky thick tyre sets me back about 12 pound so thrilled to pieces.
Wander around Delhi in search of relics of the raj and the signs of the mutiny of 1857 that crippled Delhi and witnessed the deaths of 10's of thousands of Indians as the British wrecked vengeance on the citizens of Delhi for harbouring the mutineers. Probably too ambitious in my search as temperatures in the 40C and much has changed since 1857 but did find a church (locked), a crumbling Kashmiri gate and walked up to the Delhi ridge were the British layed siege to the city and found the British Memorial to the dead, now an exercise park, were I battle for space with the new breed of aggressively assertive Delhite's.
Pick up a shave and head shave near the old city for an original fee of 30 Rs (50 pence). All goes well til he accuses me of having unclean scalp which he decides unilaterally to clean up with the aid of some pasty stuff and a electronic vibrating disc, other modifications to my face and head are deemed necessary, and given the original cheap price it seemed best to let him loose with his assorted creams, pastes and tubes of face bleacher. Almost drew the line as he plucked away half my eyebrows with a devilishly painful plucking technique using cotton, his teeth and violent arm swinging. Bald, bleached; to the colour of an exhumed corpse; and eyebrowless I am then exposed to a bit of barbarous barber extortion as he demands 550 Rs for his administrations. I protest and throw 200 rupees in his face before pegging it into the thick swirl of people that is any street in Dehli.

Super Slow Summer Special

2007-05-30T02:30:00.000-07:00

All normal trains were booked when I made my travel arrangements so I am excited about the prospect of travelling on my first ever Summer Special, extra trains put on to clear the summer holiday maker rush.
No visible signs of the train arriving on time so chat-chat with the locals about expected delays, here it is discovered that the S.S tag also stands for super slow as the trains have no real schedule at all and only use the tracks when the "real trains" have flown past. Arrive in Delhi 33 hours later for what should have been a 22 hour trip. At least I had an A.C carriage; as the temps were in the 40C; and a reasonable bunch of fellow travellers to pass the time with.
Head out for ales and re-meet the Estonian cycling 6 who are just about ready to launch off on the next leg of their trip which takes them through Kashmir into Pakistan and then on to Afghanistan should be good.

Panthers

2007-05-30T02:17:00.000-07:00

Last few days in the Darjeeling hills prove fruitful and manage to unearth enough tracks and paths me thinks to put together a fantastic tour in November time.
Spent yesterday running and walking the 45 km to Kurseong from Darjeeling on a jeep track that follows the old British Military road, excellent stuff with the first 10 k through the thick forests of a National Park. Few signs up saying do not disturb the animals but sadly no signs requesting that the animals don't disturb the humans. Come under attack twice by unidentified animals crashing and hissing in the trees but not brave enough to confront me directly, throw in a bit of sprint training here and there to show the animals what they are up against and it appeared that the suspected panthers/ black bears/ domesticated dogs didn't fancy their chances which is lucky because I was half dead and had to walk the last 30 k of the day.
Return to Darjeeling to discover that the disc has not arrived but its all to late now and I am on the train back to Delhi ready for the last bit of what was to be mountain biking in the mountainous North West Indian state of Himachel Pradesh.

"Black Hearted Bongols"

2007-05-25T04:13:00.000-07:00

Arrive in the gritty town of Kurseong without the sunshine that give it an allure yesterday it takes a while to orientate. Tea estates flank the outskirts of the town and an afternoons stroll reveals loads of singletrack for further exploration. Retire happily to bar which has the appearance of a 1970's front room complete with sofa,s and a T.V with two fluffy dogs perched on top of it. Ask for cold beer and served a warm beer with a bowl of ice separate try a few chunks and get a cold beer and a stomach tied in knots later that night.
Run about on the trails the following day and bump into ex military intelligence officer seems full of life for a man in his 80's and reckons that it is due to him being a hill area man but "those fat men from the plains they can not do anything." Feelings appear to run high here about the plains/hills divide. This divide I will attempt to explain in brief.
The people in Darjeeling and the mountain areas around it are predominantly ethnic Nepali and while being technically speaking Indian; living in the state of West Bengal; class themselves as Nepali. On the plains below, if locals are to be believed, lie "black hearted man" who will double cross and cheat you without mercy, a population of fat evil man who refuse to relinquish control over the Gorkha (Nepali) people and give them a degree of autonomy and there own state of Gorhkaland. In the 80's and 90's heavy clashes between the the Gorkha separatists and the West Bengal police took place which are well described in Anita Desai's Booker prize winning book "The Inheritance of Loss".
Obviously most of the tourists making their way up to Darjeeling and surrounds are Bengali and Bihari but predominantly from Calcutta and, agreed, they are all fat but these are the wealthy types and and a very poor representation of the plains people who are mostly thin and black hearted. Not true and unfair.

Mirik Revisited

2007-05-21T06:11:00.000-07:00

Mirik; the weather has cleared so make instant use of the fine spell and head high to the Buddhist monastery for a vantage point. Looks like plenty of scope with tea gardens everywhere so polish up me running shoes and ready myself for a big day tomorrow of run trekking. Morning still clear so hoick up the main road to the highest point about 8 km to see if there are any paths down. Friendly bunch around here and take breaks twice during the day in peoples houses for free tea, biscuits and route advice. Meet one lively character in one of the houses who appears to have a speech impediment and a large hole in his chin. On his departure the house owner informs me that he was a high ranking police officer in Calcutta but had a big problem with the drink, such a problem that in an armed chase with local "goons" the drunk copper shot himself in the chin by mistake with the bullet departing through his nose.
Find more trails down to the river which again become unrideable but at least got a good view of the terrain to launch myself for two more days of route finding which at last finds a decent days riding on the soon to be famous Sukhia-Pokriabong-Rangbang river-Mirik route . Thrilled with the days work. Walking back on the stiff climb back up to Mirik the clouds lift to give me a view of another town and ridge about 40 .m away with a forested top and myriad tea estates, looks like the perfect place from here so will move on to the vision that is Kurseong tommorrow.

More ludicrous road safety signs. 5 and 6 in the series.

Hurry burry will ruin the curry.

If you are keen on survival then don,t believe in early arrival.

Urine

2007-05-20T06:04:00.000-07:00

Decide to give it one more day here using the trekking map provided and head down the 800 metre descent to Relle a tin pot town on the river. Initially excellent stuff for M.T.B' ing, quite steep in parts but plenty of flatter sections and tight corners to make things interesting. Bottom section is pretty unrideable though which would mean a bit of a push so become little down beat. Pep up with biscuits and fizzy pop in Relle and steam back up the track at a frenetic pace only to caught up by a local man who has been on a 50 k.m round trip walk from Pemling to Kalimpong to attend to some business, a trip he says he makes once a month, humbled to see the smartly dressed man bounding up the steep track trying to get back before dark.
Decision made and decide to give Mirik another try and hope that the mist that made Mirik a nightmare has lifted. Arrive the following day after a 7 hour jeep ride. This is pretty much last chance stuff here if no suitable trails around then that is it for the North East. 5 weeks and to date still have only 4 good days riding.
Will finish on a reflection on Indian public toilets. It is common for most public toilets to be manned by a man of the lower castes whose job it is to clean the toilets and collect a small charge usually 1 rupee for a slash "urine" and 2 rupees for a crap "toilet". Yesterday entered a public toilet in Kalimpong and made my way past the attendant with the idea to pay him on my way out. Had a slash but had to wait a bit because of the queue, returned to the attendants desk were the man asked "toilet ?" ; "no" I replied "urine"; "urine" asked the man quizzically "only urine ?"; yes "urine" I responded. The man seemed unhappy with my urine claim and began a prolonged discussion with his mate and assumed toilet tough which resulted in his mate heading for the cubicles to check for signs of non paid toilet use, luckily the attendant managed to refrain him and settled for "urine 1 rupee please". Might just declare myself "toilet" in future .

The Great Samthar Plateau

2007-05-20T05:48:00.000-07:00

4 days without a beer and it is showing. 5.30 a.m starts full of life, endless energy and enthusiasm for all things, vow to hit the syrupy Kingfishers as soon as I return from the wilderness no use feeling this good. Embark upon the 40 km return trip to the "Great Samthar Plateau" locals guide me out in the early morning light and onto the narrow trail that traverses the mountains with views of the snow capped Himalaya occasionally filtering through the ancient dense forest. Brilliant trail but again no use for mountain biking so break off the trail at Charcoal (ridiculous names continue) and head on to the main forest jeep trail which I run and walk until I reach the Samthar. No visible signs of any plateau at all with the flattest bit of land up here a tiny cricket pitch, locals bemused my my requests for directions to the plateau. An English speaking man is found who clears the confusion with an unambiguous "there is nothing to see here tourists will not come". Polish of my lunch and but refuse to drink atrocious heavily salted and peppered tea which is undrinkable but a apparently a speciality in these parts. Jog most of the 20 km back through thick forest and even thicker mist very atmospheric with jungely noises and see only one group of people on the 3 hours it takes it me to return.

Kaffer; a South African's paradise

2007-05-18T05:53:00.000-07:00

Head to Lava but have to hire my own vehicle as the remotest of towns has only one bus connection per day. Outstanding scenery all the way there as the van crawls along the lanes through the thick forest. Find hotel with T.V for evening football and have a run out through the forests superb stuff but become increasingly knackered on the rocky jeep roads and reduced to walking pace. Trekking map which I am using as a base for trail finding flummoxes the locals who appear to have never have heard of some of the places I am heading to, rain rescues me from further futile exploration and I hatch a lift back to Lava to have a rethink.
Bengali's in hotel reckon the trekking routes are better in the remotest of remote towns of Kaffer so head there the following day and bump into the only other tourist this side of the Rimlingting pass a South African; not on some pilgrimage to places with names fashioned out of apartheid Sud Adrika you might think; but rather a young student bimbling about, thank god for that.

Kalimpong

2007-05-18T05:31:00.000-07:00

No time to waste as I have only 4 weeks left to find some more decent trails up here in the North East of India ready for the hoped arrival of a big group of Singaporeans in November. Enroll big brother;" you only ring when you want something" in sending me out a new rotor. Pack up me running shoes and take jeep to Kalimpong the gateway to the remote villages of Lava and Kaffer and the fabled Grand Samthar Plateau where it is hoped there are some superb trails for mountain biking which I will have to run and walk first to test them out till the bike is fixed up.
Jeep journey enlivened bu ex Gurka who laments the reduction of the Gurkha battallions from seven to one at present. Reckons that the British always favoured Gurkha recruits from Darjeeling but for Darjeeling based ethnic Nepali's they had to prove they were Nepali citizens not Indian before they let them in. Reckons there was a lot of dubious paper work doing the rounds then. Explains that war is a terrible thing and prepare myself for some terrible tales of death and destruction. The man winks and says he got out before the Falklands and he only ever worked in a clerical post. Anyhow the man is well respected in Kalimpong and many salute and greet him as we walk through the streets. Seems very keen for me to me visit Bangkok on my travels and implores me to go as soon as possible "there for 100$ you can enjoy all day and night" reckons it is much better than Bhutan "nothing to see". Advice accepted.
Evening ales in rajesque Aroma bar faded charms and appear to be the only customer, polish of three ales as the Bihari owner brings out old photoes of his Grandad and Lady Mountbatten.

American, Indian.

2007-05-17T03:53:00.000-07:00

Take stock over a few morning teas and decide that can,t really explore too much new territory with only the one working brake. Decide to make my way to the road-head at Rimbick some 30 k away and head back to Darjeeling to organise another disc. Set out at frenetic pace as informed whilst slurping down my third cup of tea that the last jeep out of Rimbick is at mid- day. Half push and half peddle through the undulating thick forests and reach Rimbick with 10 minutes to spare. Friendly American trekking group offer me lift in their privately chartered jeep causing me to reflect on the general good nature of the average travelling American an opinion strengthened when they refuse to accept any payment for the ride. Shame about the res............
Nothing to do with the days events but have decided that holidaying Indians are mad. All Indian's on holiday follow the same pattern of behaviour which means waking up at before sunrise, here about 4.30 a.m. Children and adults alike will put the T.V on full blast, swing and bang doors to make sure they work, shake or rattle anything at hand before embarking on synchronised throat clearing and burping. The next few hours are spent munching crisps and fizzy drinks before a big breakfast. After that they retire back to bed just occasionally venturing out of their hotels to throw some empty crisp packets about or go in search of more food.

The Tumling-Ghorkey Push

2007-05-17T03:23:00.000-07:00

Massive day on the bike to come which should take see me climb over 1500 meters descend over 2500 metres, push a bit, cycle a bit and generally knacker meself out. Start of badly by heading the wrong way in the mist and tumbling down the mountains towards Nepali Eelam before locals spring out onto the track and tell me I am in the wrong country.
Mist a feature all day but when it clears navigation becomes easier but it also reveals some nasty climbs to come that last time I completed in the comforting ignorance of a blanket of cloud. Legs in poor shape after the second big climb of the day and reach the highest point at 3700 metres exhausted and not in need of a lunch of stale tibetan bread and rancid Yaks butter. Continue swiftly on; turning down offers of more culinary delights; and embark on the 20 km traverse to Phalut. Excellent mountain biking but have to get off on the few mini climbs and push more then expected. Reach the deplorable freezing rotting shed that serves as a Trekking hut in Phalut pop down a cup of tea in the company of a few weary trekkers wisely unwilling to rest their heads here and arrange to meet them in the village of Ghorkey 15 km and 1500 metres down in the valley below.
Descent is corking , winding singletrack with ready made berms, jumps and few rocky sections world's happiest man for 3 km before my back brake makes an appalling cracking noise and I now have a rear disc rotor in two pieces. Continue on with only the front brake for 100 metres before a puncture reduces me to tears. Patch up and wait for the trekkers and walk down with them for 2 hours along an amazing track that would have been the best descent done in India so far.
Night in Ghorkey superb village in the forest miles away from electric, roads, schools etc in fact so isolated that the forest department and the the local government have decided to shift the population of a 100 or to the nearest town in the name of development.

De-railed

2007-05-12T06:39:00.000-07:00

Up at 5 a.m to make up for the lost time and take jeep out of Darjeeling to the town of Ghoom. The road follows the toy train track which weaves and wanders all over the road making driving difficult. Compounding the difficulties are thousands of Bengali tourists coming in Jeeps the other way form the morning pilgrimage to Tiger Hill to watch the sunrise over Kanjunchunga mountain. Jeep takes an eternity to reach Ghoom an eternity in which I remember I have left my gloves in the hotel so have to return back. Another hour to travel back the 8 k.m to Ghoom pick up the gloves and then jeep it back again to Ghoom to find a total traffic jam this time caused by hordes of Bengali tourists waiting for the toy train to do a circle of Batasla loop. Arrive in Ghoom at 9 a.m in livid state and begin to conclude that the toy train track should be struck off the U.N.E.S.C.O list and dug up.
Back to doss house, change and peddle at furious pace up the 1000 meter climb to Tumling before running out of legs and pushing up the super steep rock paved track. Tumling fantastic and stay again in Shikara lodge were I position myself in the wooden kitchen next to the hearth for another evening of watching cats, being fed and chatting to the guides and teachers of the student groups.

Purple Vision

2007-05-12T06:09:00.000-07:00

Head back to Darjeeling to re do the Singallilla ridge ride and try to find a better descent down from the windswept 3700 metre Nepal, West Bengal, Sikkim border post of Phalut. Attempt new route to the starting town of Manibhanjang but thwarted by river crossings and locals refuse to accept that a cycle is a fit means of transport for what I propose to do. So head back to Darjeeling and road it the 25 km to the starting point. Storms stop me 5 km short and take shelter for two hours as the rains threaten to sweep everything away down to the plains. Pissed wet through, frozen and miserable on arrival in the starting town and decide to spend night there. Lodgings in pityfull state so decide to leave bike in the doss house and head back to Darjeeling to dry clothes and jeep it back to Darjeeling and have a night of luxury instead. Luxury accomadation dream shattered as most hotels full so spend night in hotel not dissimilar to the one where I left the bike. Manager points out T.V as sign of luxury though and relish an evening of watching England One Day International re runs from the 1980's in glorious purple vision with a big band down the middle of the screen.

Legship and Bum

2007-05-06T07:25:00.000-07:00

At last I am on the bike in Sikkim attempting a three day ride on little used trekking routes that will take me from Pelling-Ketchapperri Lake-Yuksom-Tasheeding-Legship.
Things start well and find the trail down from Pelling through the forests and down to the river some 1000 metres below. Trail is steep in parts but blows out to a wider jeep track covered in shail and makes for fantastic riding. Sadly trail ends and I have to negotiate my way through someones garden and then everything becomes increasingly unrideable down to the river. Hike up the other side for a km or so then decide I would rather ride on the Tarmac than carry for three hours.
Arrive in Katchaperry book myself into Trekkers lodge and head in search of food, walk around the holy lake and Trek to the monastery inconveniently placed like all monasteries on top of the steepest hill. A handful of other tourists make for decent company and shuvvle a few ales down as an ex M.T.B er from America shows of his reasons for packing the sport in. Fractured skull, missing teeth, two broken wrists.

Day 2

Up early and head down the next super steep descent a trifle gingerly until abandon and and start to push on the moss covered man made rock trail which becomes increasingly treacherous as it heads deeper into the thick forest.
Cross over bridge and traverse on cracking path for a few k.m before the uphill battle begins again and return to the tarmac for 9 km climb up to Yuksom. Yuksom is a cracking little place full of character. Head up to another monastery this time on the bike and push up for an 1 hour before having the bike seized by monks who make merry with the bike as is the custom here. Super run back down and regain confidence on steep stepped section and fell like a real M.T.B er.
Spend time in evening talking to bird watcher who takes exception at my labelling of him and corrects me that he is the business of bird research like I am a M.T.B researcher not a cyclist. Eh. Does seem to know what he is talking about and appears to be studying why Sikkim has more varieties of birds than anywhere else in India.
Meet another researcher in the evening from Himachel Pradesh; in North West India; who is on a recce for mountain biking in Sikkim, very unusual this. Anyhow seems more keen on jeep trails and broken roads and reckons searching out singletrack is a too time consuming and no one is interested. Interestingly reckons no one in North India does real mountain biking before inviting me to lead one of his groups out in October. Will wait and see on that.
Day 3
Amazing trails for k.m after k.m in the most scenic and remotest section so far but the trail is impossible to ride more than a few metres here and there as is it super steep then rocky and undulating. Brilliant for walking but useless for M.T.B Abandon to road after steamy sweaty 3 hours of perseverence hoping for a decent rideable section.
Road it back to Legship; my favourite named town in Sikkim after Bum; after another mountain climb up to the the famed gold topped monastery at Tasheeding. Too tired to enjoy it so trundle back down dispirited about M.T.B in Sikkim and hatch a plan to return to W.Bengal and abandon Sikkim till the competition on the 12th. Reckon it could takes months to find a few days decent riding here.

The Problem With Pelling

2007-05-05T05:11:00.000-07:00

Disastrous morning trying to find jeep stand which has been shifted due to the arrival of a V.I.P in Gantok so best to inconvenience everybody else rather than have a V.I.P stuck behind a jeep for a minute. Spend hours free wheeling down Gantok's super steep roads to a fictitious jeep stands that appear to have been magically moved seconds before I arrive. This is followed by me pushing the bike and carrying my heavy bag of tools, clothes and spare parts miles back up the tortuously steep roads back to other non existent jeep stands, eventually rescued by a man who had seen me traipsing up and down for hours and takes my bags on his motorbike as I follow on my bicycle to the jeep stand.
Arrive Pelling after 5 hour jeep ride initially pleasant looking place with astonishing views of the snow capped Eastern Himalaya. Meet up with Estonian cycle tour group making film of their travels from Khatmandu to Tehran, seem to be off track a bit here. Loads of ale and Chang; fermented millet drink slurped through a straw; make for decent night and sabotage the following days efforts to get on my bike.
Discover on sabotaged day that Pelling is as dull as the dead blue sheep that lie scattered over Sikkim's mountainous terrain so decide to get out the following day and embark on a three day cycling trek.
Problem with Pelling is that it is soulless and is one windy road full of high rise hotels all vying for a view of the admittedly fantastic Himalaya. There is no bazaar and no real shops and the only business transaction I conducted forced me into the hands of a shoe repairer in a super glamorous wooden hut with remarkable stunning Himalayan views in which he decided to repair my rotting Shimano S.P.D's at ludicrous rates. 70 Rupees. Furious.

Two nights in Gantok

2007-05-05T04:57:00.000-07:00

Few cheap ales in Gangtok's pubs sets me up for a full days Mountain Bike research. Given the name of a man who is Sikkim's best M.T.B er who works at local school and takes some time off to meet me. Spend an hour pouring over maps to locate the best trails that Sikkim has to offer and decide on reflection that their aren't any and that the teacher is happier on roads than on singletrack. Excellent bloke all the same and reckons I would be best heading to the West and trying my arm on some of the established trekking routes.
A mountain bike competition is also planned for the 12th May which appears odd as there are not many mountain bikers in Sikkim. It appears that the event has been organised by the tourist board in attempts to attract an international field. The competition is uphill all the way two thirds on tarmac and the rest on a jeep road in a forest. Still it could have something to offer and might be able to meet up with some more riders so will head West to Pelling tomorrow.

Driving with Whiskey

2007-05-05T04:46:00.000-07:00

Delirium put to bed so pulled myself together and boarded the jeep to Gantok, the capital of the mountain state of Sikkim and the most recent member of the Indian Union (1975). Lovely drive alongside fast flowing rivers through increasingly mountainous terrain. The journey is made even more entertaining by the ludicrous signs painted on to rocks on the side of the road, signs presumably dreamed up by the All Indian Road Safety Sign Design Department or A.I.R.S.S.D.D. Here a some of the better ones.

Left is Right.
On My Curve Test Your Nerve
Driving With Whiskey Very Very Risky

and my favourite.

Don,t Gossip Let the Man Drive.

More to come

Human League

2007-04-29T05:42:00.000-07:00

Time is up in Nepal and despite feeling pretty ill decide to risk it and get the overnight bus back to the Indian border. Stumach holds up well but feel weak as a kitten and semi delirious; which is my usual bus state; as we head back to the border. Things are delayed though as reports of ambushes by the "Terrai League"; splinter group of the more militant, "Human Terrai League" in the forests ahead reach the driver. Repeat loud playing of "I,m only human " seemed to keep the protesters at bay; this; as well as the being escorted in convoy by hundreds of heavily armed troops in military vehicles.
Midday Friday I am back in India and decide a day in bed should clear the delirium.

Rushdie Outraged

2007-04-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

One of the best bits things about Pokhara has to be my initially surly looking French friend turned Corsican genius- Tangy. Spent a few afternoons at his Commencal ( French M.T.B manufacturer) sponsored bike hut. Had a handful of rides around Pokhara; some cracking trails and non of the traffic hopping that mars reaching the trails in Katmandu. Tangy is well on his way to having some of the best M.T.B er,s in Asia as he runs a school for kids from 7 up who seem more than happy on both wheels, back wheels or sometimes hopping around on front wheels pulling stunts on the street. Amazing stuff.
Nightimes in Pokhara are the biggest problem with a myriad of near empty bars and restaurants churning out the same stuff. Managed a few ales here and there but my big night out watching the football in the decent company of a student of Shakespeare was destroyed by an outrageous attack on my favourite (and only read author) Salman Rushdie with the preposterous expostulation that Rushdie had robbed all his ideas of Gunther Grass. Can anyone help me on this one ???

Births, hailstones and mad cows.

2007-04-25T02:28:00.002-07:00

All things pretty tame in Pokhara. Beautiful setting alongside a lake with cracking views of the Annapurna range of mountains take a day to settle in and embark upon my first ride out.

Head up to Sagarkot for a short blap out about 800 metre height gain on tarmac road to a small settlement perched high above the lake. Follow past village for a few Km to sight a track to descend back to lake to discover a heavily pregnant Nepali lady lied flat out on the side of the track shaded by an umbrella held by another women. The umbrella lady called out for me to get a taxi so I bombed back down the track to the village to try to avail one. Village shopkeeper said he would phone for taxi but seemed unwilling to ring for one unless I would promise to pay the fare which obviously I had to accept. Wait around for about 30 minutes in gathering clouds waiting for the taxi before news comes in the form of a motorbike rider that the lady has given birth on the side of the track. Unsure if the taxi is still required I sprint back up the 2 k climb to find the lady wandering back up the hill clutching the child with the umbrella women and a man for company. The man; on sighting me called out "Sorry Taxi cancel" as if he had decided to stay in the pub for an extra pint. Returned back down to the village, paid the bemused Taxi driver his fare before heading down the closest trail I could find that would lead be out of the gathering strom.
Hail stones the size of Yaks bolloxs ping of my widened eyeballs as I descend a super tricky trail full of greasy steps and rocks back down to the lake. Lightening and thunder ensue which cause havoc amongst the local buffalo and cow population causing a charge with one particular cow eying me up as the cause of the noise and deciding to trample me to death. Abandon bike mid trail and cower trembling behind a giant tree whilst the cow repeatedly rushes at the tree with its horns down, stamping and mooing in a terrifying manner. Thankfully rescued by a shepherd who shoos the beast away.

The Controversy Continues to Mar Mountain Bike Meet

2007-04-25T02:28:00.001-07:00

For those following the appalling scenes at the previously mentioned Indian mountain bike National Championships this response has been posted up.

Dear

The story was biased, there were many irregularities and misconduct during the championships. Mr Dhaliwal was not present at that moment when the incident took place. Mr. Grewal openly indulged in unfair practices and manipulating the timings. Lately even the chief referee also left the championship midway due to grewal interference. The MTB circuit is not according to UCI rules and have 80% mottled road and there was no traffic control either. Till date the boys trained in Chandigarh whether taking part from other states are winning the MTB events. How Chandigarh manager can help his riders if they are taking part from Chandigarh.if Grewal is fair enough, why there is lot protests in all the recently held National Championships.

Escape From Khatmandu

2007-04-25T02:28:00.000-07:00

Picked up the Indian visa and head Kathmandu's favourite watering hole Tom and Jerry's to make plans for my escape . Miserable fare and appear to be short of company. Polish off my third pint and decide to leave until company arrives in the shortest of forms with a Manchester based Nepali gay dwarf who works at Next and professes to be a big hit with the ladies; buys me a pint before a brief chit chat about Manchester before scuttling off into the night.

Tuborg and Orangeboom

2007-04-15T22:15:00.000-07:00

Day four now in Nepal. Headed straight to Khatmandu from the Indian border a promised 12 hour bus ride took 19 in a bus full of violently unpredictable reclining seats which reclined or folded at random like human mouse traps crushing the arms, legs and heads of the uncomplaining pasengers who seemed quite used to it.
Khatmandu- Hole up in Khatmandu's Thamel area super touristy and unrecognisable from previous visits. My legendary sense of direction which serves me so well in India appears to have failed to penetrate the Katmnadu valley and spend the next four days wandering around the maze of streets in a state of confusement.
Regain my bearings in the evening time on a diet of Momos and slurping Nepal's favourite beers those long since forgotten master brewers Tuborg and Orangeboom which can be bought in any shop including the barbers. In other ways they are way ahead of the times here and spend a pleasant Nepali New Year celebration in French, Australian, Canadian and Israeli company bringing in the Nepali year of 2064!
Mountain biking in Khatmandu seems quite advanced as well relative to India with a few shops renting out decent imported bikes, there are M.T.B maps, a competition on the 29th April; which I will skip as its 100 US$; and a few foreigners winding their way through the streets on impressive looking bikes. Join up with two French lads one a M.T.B guide from Pokhara( 300k away) and another a French teacher. Have a few rides out with them, some superb and very technical trails in the hills surrounding Khatmandu and the lads prove to be fitter, faster and Frencher than me in that initially surly way they have.

Murk in Mirik

2007-04-15T22:07:00.000-07:00

Recovery day in Darjeeling before bus to Mirik which promises some superb mountain biking with loads of trails pouring down the hillside to the plains of Bengal 2000 metres below. No visibility at all for two days makes Mirik a miserable murky place and impossible for trail finding so console myself with a 10k run around the lake and a 10k road climb.
Decide to abandon on the third day and head to Nepal early to pick up a new Indian Visa and have a look at the mountan biking there with the hope that the weather will clear when I return.

Pumped up.

2007-04-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

Day 2 Saw more fog and more climbing as a mix of cycling, pushing and heavy breathing got me through to my night halt at Sandakpur 3700 metres up freezing cold and windy. Highlight of the day was the approach by Indian border security forces and questioning on whether I had bike pump or not, unsure as why this was relevant I handed over the pump much to their delight. Deflated volleyballs and football's were brought forward and the 1st pump to reach Sandakpur for years was put to good use. Leaving the army post a happy place full of ball bouncing soldiers.
Most of the afternoon and the night was spent in the kitchen of the hut I was staying at, huddled up next to the family over a metal container of hot coals slurping beers and eating rice mixed up with rancid Yak's milk and unidentifiable meat.
Day 3 Miss the days only sighting of Kanchenjunga whilst pumping up more balls for the local kids. Weather has cleared somewhat and the day promised a 20 km ridge ride before a 1800 metre descent down to the river at Shri Khola.
Some of the best riding I have ever done took me along singletrack and rocky trails on undulating terrain through an amazing landscape littered with dead trees . Wandering Yaks and the odd bemused Sherpa carrying bundles of stuff to who knows where provided the only company. Descent proves incredible, windey hard packed trail with a few wooden steps and ramps running over the small rivers. Takes about 90 minutes to get down the increasingly tricky track to the Shri Khola lodge.
Day 4 Bag of shite compared to previous days, many more trekkers on the trail which widens and widens until it becomes a dirt road. Routs taking me back to Darjeeling listed as trekking routes turn out to be roads so abandon after 60 km and jeep back up to Darjeeling for a another night in Joeys pub with the Charlie Chan look alike landlord.

Controversy mars mountain bike meet

2007-04-08T04:55:00.000-07:00

Have a look at this.

Controversy mars mountain bike meet Ravi Dhaliwal
Patiala, October 18The 5th Hercules MTB National Mountain Bike Championship was marred by controversy with the organisers filing a written complaint with the local police against one of the affiliated units of the Cycling Federation of India (CFI) .
In their complaint filed with the Anandpur Sahib police station, the organisers have alleged that the manager of the Chandigarh Cycling Association (CCA), an affiliate of the CFI, provoked some parents of competitors to hurl abuses at them and the federation secretary Mr J.S. Grewal when the events were being conducted in the morning.
The manager, Mr Rakesh Mohindru, could be seen openly provoking parents to indulge in hooliganism which proved to be an impediment in the smooth success of the events on the concluding day today.
Mr Rajeev Kakkar, father of a participant Rohan Kakkar who stood second in one lap point to point cross country time trial event (u-16), went to Mr Grewal and started to shower the choicest Punjabi expletives on him.
He was being egged on by Mr Mohindru whose intention, it seemed, was to stop the day’s proceedings.
An enraged Mr Grewal then asked the officials to submit a written complaint to the police. However, even as the police were dilly-dallying on whether to register a FIR on basis of the complaint, a compromise was reached.
This unsavoury incident left a bad taste in the mouths of the spectators, organisers and the parents. Mr Grewal later said that he would seek the disaffiliation of the CCA from the CFI at the next general house meeting of the federation.
If this was not enough yet another unsavoury incident occurred when a Chandigarh cyclist, who apparently fell while negotiating a sharp bend near the starting line, claimed that he was pulled down by a Punjab rider. Officials accompanying the Punjab contingent alleged that a Chandigarh rider Karan Claire had deliberately positioned himself on the course and was trying to trip Punjab cyclists.
The organisers got hold of him and he was promptly handed over to the local police on the directions of the secretary of the CFI.
However, the Chandigarh squad were quick to wash their hands off the incident by claiming that Karan Claire had already been disqualified by their manager, Mr Ravinder Singh.
Meanwhile, Jagdeep Singh of Punjab gave a good performance to be placed first in the time trial cross country event for boys (u-16). He was given a tough fight by Chandigarh’s Rohan Kakkar and the champ was separated from the challenger once after he drove with tremendous conviction in the home stretch.
Results: 1 lap time trial cross country (girls, u-16): Arshi (Haryana)-1, Mahita Mohan (Kerala)- 2, Radhika Bisht (Chandigarh)-3. (Boys): Jagdeep Singh (Punjab)-1, Rohan Kakkar (Chandigarh)-2, Rahul Anand (Chandigarh)-3. 4 lap mass start , girls, u-16: Mahantesh Kaparati (Karnataka)-1, Kamal Preet Sharma (Punjab)-2, Mahesh Mane (Maharashtra)-3.
Team championship: men: Chandigarh; women: Punjab.

Yaks, tracks and the worlds best descent.

2007-04-08T04:25:00.000-07:00

4 days in the wilderness at 3700 metre plus amongst Yaks, monks, Nepali porters and fog as thick as a Tibetan blanket all on my mountain bike pioneering trails that surely many will follow.
Started from Darjeeling 40 k on road to the police border check post at Manibhanganj, the trail switches between Nepal and India so there are loads of military checks up here. 12 km steep climb up takes me from 2000 metres to 3000 metres on a broken cobbled path which makes cycling very tricky manage about 70% of it. Make it to the trekking hut in the tiny Nepali settlement of Tumling and retire to the kitchen and dining area. Place over run by frenzied young Bengali student on a 3 day trek dressed only in flip flop and track suits; expect some casualties soon; strangely the teachers are rigged out in high end trekking gear, poles, gloves and the works and seem very pleased with themselves as the kids run around the dining hall to avoid hypothermia.
I am requested to sit in the kitchen to keep warm and avoid the kids and manage to sit for about 5 hours on a stool where as I am fed uncomplainingly by members of the Nepali family who run the place. Only the antediluvian Grandma fails to get in on the feeding frenzy; she appears settled perched almost on top of the hearth next to a large fat cat occasionally yelling out what appear to be obscenities which every one ignores accept the cat which spikes up its ears at every outburst.

More Darjeeling Days

2007-04-08T04:16:00.000-07:00

Few more days here yet before attempt the Sandakpur 4 day Trek on my mountain bike. Highlights include witnessing a a Bengali man rugby tackle a tiny Nepalese boy in the fruit and veg bazaar with the Bengali man coming off worse. Tough little things these Nepali's. Turned out the kid had nicked a packet of sweets from his stall. Thieving little swines these Nepali's.
Super shave in the afternoon followed by head massage which involved much head slapping and twiddling of the eye brows. Big Trek tomorrow so will stay out of the bars; do not trust myself not to be sat at the bar till the early hours full of ale watching the cricket world cup.

Darjeeling Days

2007-04-03T06:43:00.000-07:00

Hiking the bike and bag full of bike spares up to the hotel 200 metres above on Darjeeling ridge was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Super steep road full of giggling kids on their way to school laughing away at the plight of the self tortured tourist; I could have rented out a porter.
Refuse to do anything else all day apart from embarking on a short walk and retiring to a bar in the evening with a few pleasantish other tourists. 6 pints and a karaoke interspersed by a scuffle over the mike between two Nepali's an Elvis singer and an angry young man who wanted to sing Cliff Richard.
Fix up the bike on the second day and have a short ride out super steep road descents followed by even steeper climbs back up. Abandon and decide to go for a trek tomorrow. Evening meals in ill ventilated tiny Tibetan place, become overwhelmed by the kerosene fumes produced from the cooking and almost collapse into my beef momos and vegetable thukpa.
Day three sees me out earlyish in misty conditions on the trek some super section of tracks that would be cracking on the bike but would have to carry about 50% so become dispirited. Stumble down the tracks into a cricket match being played out on a 5 yard wide track carved out of the mountainside. Locals produce 30 balls for each match made out of stones wrapped around with cloth and rubber bands. Reckon they have not got enough as ball after ball disappears down the mountain to be chased after by tiny kids whose job it is try to retrieve them. Return to Darjeeling 1/2 mile back up in the sky up super steep steps.

Trains

2007-04-03T06:37:00.000-07:00

I am back. 52 hours and 3500 km on a train from the lush tropical palm fringed port of Cochin to the industrial West Bengal town of Siliguri; 500 km North of Calcutta; the gateway to the North East Indian Himalaya and the hill stations of Gantok and Darjeeling.A 2nd class sleeper ticket got me 2 full nights on the train in the company of a family of 4 from Manipur a tiny hill state on the Burmese border. The Manipurese had made the same mammoth journey in reverse only the day before to collect their children from school and return them home for the 3 month summer holiday. The kids had been placed in a private school in Kerala to take them away from the culture of insurgency that inculcates the minds of the youths in Manipur and the low level battle for independence from the Indian Union. Most of this was explained to me the jovial rotund father in an afternoon of discussion in which he laid out languorously on the bottom berth with his feet up and his head plumped on my knee looking up at my startled face for signs of intelligence.The journey on the whole was pleasant as the train rattled along at a sedate 60 kmh with hot humid air blowing through the barred windows, stopping every couple of hours giving time to pop out and patrol the platforms in search of food.Previous experience in India had taught me to be well planned for these epic journeys and I had armed myself with new soap to battle the filth and grime, a wallet full of small rupee notes to purchase food and a plastic bag full of books to keep me entertained. The books and soap lasted the trip but the wallet along with me rupees, train ticket and luggage booking receipt for the cycle booked into the separate luggage compartment failed to survive the journey a victim of the squat toilets.The wallet had been placed on the toilet window ledge to avoid it suffering a grim death and falling out of my pocket down on to the track below along with the contents of my stomach. In the battle to stay upright in the violently swaying carriage it was tragically overlooked and never seen again. On arrival in Siliguri 30 hours later this was to cause me a few problems and create my first encounter with those fine custodians of the law the Indian Police.At Siliguri a massive struggle ensued as 5 men attempted to extricate my cycle; the only consignment to be dropped off at Siliguri; out of the overstuffed luggage van. The men worked at a frenzied pace to liberate the cycle hurling boxes onto the track much to the annoyance of the trains guard who had to delay the train " Look very difficult ". The cycle was eventually handed down to me on the track whilst a few boxes were hastily stuffed back into the compartment before the train whistled and rolled off into the night.Getting the bike out of the station was problematic with no tickets I couldn't prove the bike was mine, men gathered round in a feverish state as I explained the loss of the wallet and ticket. Puzzled looks abounded until the luggage officer reckoned that a complaint with the police should be lodged which would then procure the sufficient amount of paperwork that all Indians require to make things run smoothly and hopefully enable for the release of my cycle.The gun slinger eyed Police Commander appeared unimpressed with my plight and the hastily written statement that I had put together accounting for the loss of the ticket. Another man was summoned from the back room a man who it seemed was well versed in extracting or changing statements to suit police needs. Alterations were demanded, no loss of rupees to be mentioned, times and dates changed to ensure that the "crime" occurred in a different police division, a photograph was demanded to be attached to the police's copy of the statement, a photo I hoped would not be added to the the rogues gallery hung up outside displaying a host of grim faced criminals who had transgressed the law on railway property. New statements were signed, more forms filled in and apologies made for wasting police time before I and the cycle were released from police and railway custody three hours later into the the scrummage that always greets the traveller at whatever time he arrives outside an Indian railway station. A jeep was hailed in the melee and I along with 5 pot bellied chain smoking Calcuttans; incongruously heading out on a 5 day trek from Darjeeling; squeezed our selves into the jeep with luggage and bike placed on top. The vehicle revved up completed a full lap of the station car park and returned back to the entrance before the driver disappeared for ten minutes returning with more pot bellied chain smoking Calcuttans who sat on top of us and satisfied the driver that the vehicle was full. To Darjeeling we went.