Horseman

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

Austrian Soloist

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

Bank Manager

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

Legless Goats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rickshaw Safari

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the 40-hour train journey I fell asleep.

Tamil Tapas

Munnar.

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