Saturday 19 November 2016

Bumps, pot holes and caves....



We've left The Hotel Pavillionn after a very restful three nights. We've both been engrossed in reading The Far Pavilions and it felt right to complete my recovery there (although it was a little over budget!). The most stressful thing we had to endure was an hour long interview and photo shoot with a local reporter, who somehow heard our story and couldn't wait for the scoop of the century! We wait to hear whether it actually made the press but I'm sure you'll all find out in your next edition of the Maharashtra Times. God knows how he actually found out that we were there!


We left Kolhapur on State Highway 10, a road which we were soon to develop a love hate relationship with. It turned out that we couldn't get off the bloody thing for days. Our experience of Indian road surfaces, which we now very modestly class ourselves as world leading experts in, has been, after weeks of in-depth field work, a tiny weeny bit better than just above the mean. That is to say, at times it can be quite astoundingly good however, within metres, can deteriorate into absolute shit! For anyone who has cycled before, you will know that there is the holy trinity that can make or break your day.... tarmac (preferably as smooth as a babies bottom), wind (a gentle tail never goes a miss) and gradient (up is fine as long as there's free wheeling with purpose at the other end). State Highway 10 appeared to always fail in at least one aspect. It's hard to describe just how much a broken piece of tarmac can break your spirits but the ruts and rivets and gaping chasms, ready to gobble up your front wheel and send you arse over tit, were at times soul destroying. That's before you've had to deal with the endless hours of being incessantly jiggled and bounced around by your elbows, fingers tingling, feet numb and back in a sorry state!



At this point, like us, you may well be asking yourself, why the hell are we cycling in India of all places! But then, when the bumps and pot holes have worn down your morale to the point of selling your bike at the next chai stall and buying the first Royal Enfield you see, the road gods invariably deliver! We'd been plodding uphill all morning into a steady headwind when at last the tarmac seemed to melt into a perfect surface in the morning heat haze and as we rounded a corner, the plateau, which we were unaware we were on, dropped away in front of us. The long grass either side of the road was golden in the morning sunlight and the sandstone cliffs showed their geological past in the eroded stacks in the distance. Below us the plains disappeared into the misty haze. The joy of free wheeling around perfectly cambered bends is pretty unparalleled especially when you've worked for every metre you descend. We have a mantra as we cycle that every metre ascended is being put in the bank for free wheeling later but we're not sure how to deal with the fact that we started at sea level and are ending in the Himalaya! I think there might be a few other ups and downs before then!


The weather's changing about us too although it's not quite like a November back home if Howard's photos of snow in High Bentham are anything to go by! We chat about Tamil Nadu when we first set off nearly six weeks ago and can't quite believe we survived the soaring temperatures and unbearable nights. Now we wake and wrap up, buffs and all, to brace ourselves against the morning chill. It nearly got to below 10 degrees the other morning and I had to take drastic measures... I actually put on my coat!! The night times are beautiful and cool and the midday sun has now lost its fierce strength. This all means that the road stretching in front of us feels much more achievable.


Life on the road is a funny old thing especially when you find yourself in India. We really had no idea what to expect. The fact our tent and cooking stove have seen very little action says a lot. Although we've now discovered couch surfing which has been fantastic, most of our nights are spent in a hotch-potch of faded hotels and concrete geometric masterpieces covered in reflective glass and painted gregariously... not quite the tumbled down 'bucolic' mud huts in quaint rural villages we'd imagined. But after 43 days on the road, its funny how you start to enjoy the ambience of watching another dusty sunset from a dilapidated, grubby rooftop at the end of the day. Like the holy trinity of roads, hotels can also shine or leave you wishing you'd got your tent out. The quest for a fluffy pillow, a free Mysore sandalwood soap, two soft towels, a bed sheet that doesn't have the stains of last night's occupant and the piece de resistance, a warm shower is a never ending challenge. Needless to say, when your scrapping for every rupee, the dirty stains, rock hard pillows, mosquito infested bathrooms, Indian squatty loos and cold bucket showers don't seem so bad! I suppose we did crave the 'Indian Experience' although neither of us are sure what that really is.


Talking of rupees... some of you may have seen, amongst other slightly more worrying global news... in Kat's Dads words... 'Welcome to the world of Miss Piggy!'... the Indian Government decided overnight to scrap all 500 and 1000 rupee notes (the main denomination in circulation in the Indian economy). We're still a bit unsure as to why but we were told it was because the government was concerned about an influx of 'black money'. For us, it meant that all of our money became worthless over night. Huge cues have been a feature of every bank since, as people desperately try to exchange their now defunct currency. We can't fault our treatment as twice, while waiting with everyone else, we've been plucked from the cue by a portly armed guard, dressed in his Khaki's, rifle slung casually over his shoulder, and escorted to the front where we've been treated as important VIPs on both occasions. Leaving the banks, avoiding eye contact with the masses peacefully waiting their turn, we wondered whether a tourist, in a similar situation back home, would be treated in the same way?

As we plod on, slowly heading north, there remain those moments when simple gestures still take you by surprise. Recently, I realised that I was becoming a little quick to jump on the defensive, especially when another selfie appeared imminent but when an elderly fruit seller gave Kat an apple for free with his blessing for our journey and a man next to him then offered us a cold bottle of water, saying it is 'his greatest pleasure' it's hard not to feel humbled by their generosity and once again, reflect on how we treat strangers back home. We were treated to a new discovery in one chai stall underneath the tendrils of a baby banyan tree. A potentially ageless crumbly pastry turned into a culinary delight when dunked in a steaming cup of sweet chai! A flaky, slightly stale, strawberry pastry masterpiece. It's as much the good feeling inside from these acts of kindness as the tit bit itself.

The moment we saw our next couch surfing hostess, Pooja, we knew we had found the embodiment of that same kindness. She immediately welcomed us, two tired, smelly, strays into her lovely home. She filled us with hot milky tea, set out a homemade Gujarati curry with fresh chapatti and allowed us free reign with her washing machine, a household appliance we'd been dreaming of! She left us to take full advantage of her peaceful house as she went of to work. We were not alone. Jessie, a lovable salt and pepper terrier who's expressive bushy eyebrows encouraged constant ear tickling and Rocky, a lab-Rottweiler cross who's head was the size of a lions but who's temperament was that of a sleepy, cuddly bear, kept watch. It's hard to describe the sheer ecstasy of putting on a 60 degree synthetic wash after 6 weeks of wearing badly hand washed clothes. I had to weigh up the environmental impact of washing at such high temperatures with the grave risks associated with leaving Ed's cycling shorts unwashed for another 6 weeks. Pooja was a couch surfing pro, having hosted over 40 guests in the last 5 years. None of her references exaggerated  her loving spirit and openness. Not many people can keep us up passed our usual bedtime of 9 but we stayed up chatting late into the night with tummies full of home cooked delicacies.


The next day, we put our bikes aside and jumped in the back of a perfectly polished black and yellow autoricksaw for a rare day of sight seeing. I don't think we could ever accurately describe the 12th centuary, Tolkeinesk hilltop fort at Daulatabad, with it's twisting bat infested defensive tunnels and crumbling stone battlements, offering panoramic vistas or the 34 Ellora cave temples, hewn top to bottom from rock by 7000 labourers over 150 years, creating an array of sculptures, acoustic halls and vast monolithic Hindu, Buddhist and Jain monasteries, so we won't bother! All we can say is, it's well worth a visit if you're in the area!





We headed back to Pooja's for one last night of home comforts. Our little, slightly pathetic daily rituals of making home wherever we end up, laying out our bits and bobs, are a source of constant amusement. I think the truth is we're always looking for that little piece of home and in Pooja's motherly embrace we found it. Any person willing to wake at 5 am to blend fresh spices, fry pouri and make sweet chai to send us on our way is nothing short of a saint! That was how we left Aurangabad in the morning with a fantastic goodbye hug. The next 108km to Ajanta flew by after this warm farewell with food reserves on board. Helped by a fantastic road surface and some excellent purposeful descending. Bar the head wind, the holy trinity was nearly complete! 


Once again, we can't begin to describe Ajanta's 30 beautifully painted Buddhist caves that date back to as early as 200 B.C. They are set on the side of an idyllic horseshoe shaped cliff surrounded by lush green jungle and bright bougainvillea. Apparently a bloke called John Smith discovered them in 1850 something while out on a hunting expedition. He did little to uphold the reputation of the Raj by scrawling his initials on one of the exquisitely painted hand carved stone columns. Nowerdays, this World Heritage site is being lovingly cared for and we were lucky enough to see it first thing in the morning when there was no one else around.



We now find ourselves relaxing after a phenomenal Punjabi lunch with innumerable small stainless steel pots, overflowing with unbelievably tasty vegetables, curries and chutneys freshly prepared by the family of our next couch surfing host, Ritesh. We've put our frivolous sight seeing days behind us and are back on the road heading Northwards.

More soon, all our love

Ed and Kat
Xxx


Monday 7 November 2016

Fever, a Monk and a bowl of Cornflakes!



We left Anaegundi through the north gate as dawn broke. As we rode through the village, we passed a sage looking elderly dread locked man, cycling along with a small boy sat astride his pannier rack and a cockerel perched regally on his handle bars... only India! 


The next few hours were a steady push against a demoralising northerly but we formed a tight peloton and plodded on until our lunch stop in a small white washed village called Kandgal. The town was bustling with people enjoying their Diwali holiday but there was no obvious eatery in sight... this is often the case! We approached a group of men dressed in white kurta and pyjamas (long floaty Indian top and trousers) and, after making the sign for 'canna' a friendly man appeared from their midst. He pointed a down a narrow street and moments later he was ushering us into his house, bikes parked outside. The thick stone walls of his old, one room house offered a cool shade. He and his brother began preparing a simple thali from scratch as a crowd began to form outside. We sat on his bed come sofa come dining table revelling in the safety of its santurary. The door to the house was nothing more than a see through curtain and brave children would poke their heads through, only to be swatted away by the owner. As well as the children, the chai stall had now decamped to some shade opposite the house as the numbers swelled. The food was delicious and after the now inevitable chai and selfies, we had to prepare ourselves to enter the throng. The kids outside could sense our impending departure and were shouting and screaming with excitement. We managed to weave through the crowd to our bikes (which were still in one piece thanks to the old guard who had kept watch) and we managed to send the kids into a frenzy by taking a few photos. We saddled up and cycled off with a tail of fifty shrieking children, a couple on their own rickety fixie bicycles. A few women lined the streets higher up, intrigued by the comotion, and looking very confused when we pedalled by. As we climbed through the cobbled village, crowds around us, it felt like being in a stage of the Tour De France... but the open sewers, mounds of burning rubbish, piglets, chickens, Ox carts and lonely braying donkey gave it a distinctly Indian feel! We then pedalled the last 16km in the long shadows of the afternoon sun to Ilkal and our second couch surf.



We were rescued from a gaggle of children by Shamsher, our host, who arrived from work on his motorbike. The shy boy the other children had constantly been pushing to the front turned out to be his son, who had been on the look out to welcome us but little did he let on at the time. Shamsher and his family could not have been more welcoming and we really did feel at home after the three huge Rottweilers were safely chained in their kennel... no need to worry about the bikes tonight we thought! We whiled away a happy evening looking over vast volumes of wedding photos, drinking chai, being very well fed (our first meat dish in Indian!) and becoming heavily involved in the games of two vivacious five year old girls (Kat took the brunt of that... she even 'let' them combe her hair which is no mean feat after a traumatic childhood experience... Irena!). We chatted at length about renewable energy and our amazement at the lack solar power in a place so bloody sunny.... this is something Shamsher is trying to rectify in his business which installs 'top quality' German photovoltaics as wells as solar water heaters. With very little formal education but an amazing amount of business nouse he was obviously doing really well for him and his family as well as supporting other local families less well off than him. It was very odd, during another cup of tea, to be handed a phone and to be suddenly chatting to his brother, a computer engineer, in High Wycombe, who'd just got back from a holiday in Cornwall... small world! As well as the younger generations, the evening's proceedings were quietly presided over by Shamsher's mother, every sense the matriach of the family. After our second meat dish, only this time for breakfast, we headed on our way with stomachs full, hoping to reach Badami where we were going to stay for the Diwali festival of lights... we'd been promised fireworks Indian style.


As described in our trusty guide book, the main street in Badami is an 'eyesore that will have you wanting to get the hell out of there!'. But just a few cobbled streets away from the dust and noise were wonderful ancient twisting streets with brightly coloured higgledy-piggledy (sp?!) houses, some carved with ornate doorways and nooks and crannies inviting you in to take a look round secret corners. The day before Diwali appeared to be a spring clean day as all the saried women scrubbed the streets clean and painted walls and doorways. The pigs were having a field day as the sewers bubbled with soap and detritus from the ladies work. Beyond the winding streets and past the banyan tree on the edge of town, a huge red sandstone gateway led you to Badami's true attraction, it's ancient cave temples and huge man made reservoir, retained by beautiful vast stone steps on which all the women were laying out their colourful clothes after washing. Unfortunately, Kat had to explore this herself as I was, yet again incapacitated and both bed and toilet bound... joy! This sadly meant that we had to enjoy the firework display from our room although the 'displays' are slightly different in India! Screamers, bangers, rockets and grapeshot went off from all sides until the wee hours and beyond, before starting up again at about half five when we set off on our bikes! Age restrictions seem a little loose too as the main protagonists seemed to be about 8 years old and as tall as the rockets they were letting off!

We plodded on with our cycling for a couple more days with the aim of reaching an Ashram (Hindu Monastery) nearer to the Western Ghats. Although the kilometres were ticking past, I (Ed) didn't seem to have my normal beans. The fact that we spent one afternoon in an air conditioned hotel watching Bad Boys II should have been a sign! We had one more 100km push until we were within a short days reach of the monastery. Everything seemed to be in our favour, perfectly smooth roads, a heavenly light easterly tail wind, high cloud providing a little shade from the ever present sun and minimal traffic. All was well until I (Ed) had a fairly big wobble at about 80km. We quickly stopped and rested with chai and a cold sprite and although feeling a bit better, my temperature control had gone a little peculiar! We did manage to make the last 20kms to a horrible dirty hotel with miserable rude staff on the grubby outskirts of a non descript commuter town, but it came at some cost!

Scene of Bad Boys II

I (Ed) lapsed into a fever and Kat took control... again! After another unsettled night and things appearing to get worse, the only option was evacuation to the safety of the monastery in the back of a truck! Whilst Kat bustled around the town, getting supplies and organising the truck, she felt more than a little harassed. For once, the locals weren't necessarily forthcoming with their offers of help and nothing makes you feel quite as much like a big white alien as being a lone white women stuck in Nipani looking after a feverish miserable 'husband' (as we have to tell everyone!) back in a dirty hotel room.

It was sweet relief once both patient and bikes were loaded into the back of a truck and we were driving up the Mumbai Highway to our Monastery at Kaneri Math, to meet the monk who would be looking after us, Nityanand.



Ed later said that in the depth of his delirium he imagined himself a lost stricken wonderer taken in by an ancient wise guru. Having sent me (Kat) out to find the healing hibiscus flower that only grows on the shady eastern slopes of Maharashtrean Western Ghats, the Guru would then set to work bringing Ed back to strength. In the cool courtyard of the Guru's peaceful residence he would later teach Ed the art of meditation, yoga, origami and of course kung-fu while I tended to his painful papercuts using hibiscus tinctures and ancient ayurvedic remedies. Finally, as a sign his strength was returning and his soul was ready, Ed would challenge his master in slow-motion, graceful hand to hand combat to the theme tune of barber's adagio. Later, trying to explain this to a monk who has never seen the crappy films we have was quite hilarious!!


In reality, Ed spent his time eating only dry biscuits, sleeping and generally feeling sorry for himself. Our kind host Nityanand, kept a close watch on his recovery and ensured we had everything we needed, as well as educating us on the true nature of Indian spiritualism. My role was once again as hunter gatherer, going off on sorties on the back of a motorbike bringing back bananas and tea. One hugely reassuring thing about the monastery was that it was less than 1km away from a clean, well equipped hospital which, in the end, we did visit to reassure ourselves that Ed wasn't suffering from dengue or chikungunya. 


As Ed slowly improved we were able to understand more of the working life of the Ashram. It was a unusual  juxtaposition. On the one hand a 1500 year old shrine and temple, a tree covered canopy where thousands of people came on a daily basis to eat the free holy food and worship in silent meditation. On the other hand, it was a working organic farm; a rare Indian breed cow sanctuary (we our now well versed in the many medicinal uses of cow urine and dung!); a 13 acre model village with startling waxwork figurines whose layout was reminiscent of IKEA; a hall of mirrors and a 7D (whatever that is...Dave??) 'horror bungalow '. The true definition of diversifaction! It also housed 100 extremely raucous children who were being educated in the Gurukalam tradition from ancient Sanskrit texts. For such small people they were very good at blowing conch shells and creating thunderous steps as they sprinted passed our room at 4.30am!

We had the humbling honour of meeting the Guru who was the incredible force behind the Ashram. As well as being the spiritual leader, he was also pioneering some inspiring projects like the organic farm and even hydroponics. He had also led a humanitarian mission to Nepal following the earthquake. 


Eventually, under the watchful eye of our new friend Nityanand, we packed our bags to resume our slow trundle north. Before we left, we bestowed the only honour we had to give to our friend, a ride on the famous 'Gear Cycle'!  Although our cycle to the next stop on our journey was a tiny 13km, it felt good to be on the move again. 


Our only mission on arrival in Kolhapur was to fulfill one of Ed's deepest desires...to obtain a bowl of ice cold milk and the irresistible crunch of a bowl of golden cornflakes...he truly is his father's son! 


Loads of love Ed and Kat xxx