Day 174
Location: Kathmandu, Nepal
Miles on the Clock: 9,385
Delhi is a shock to the system. Rich smells; poor people; beggars and vendors; hawkers and shouters; astonishing vibrancy of colour in clothes, food, buildings and markets.
Location: Kathmandu, Nepal
Miles on the Clock: 9,385
Delhi is a shock to the system. Rich smells; poor people; beggars and vendors; hawkers and shouters; astonishing vibrancy of colour in clothes, food, buildings and markets.
Market in Old Delhi, India James (an old school friend who had joined me for a month) and I explored the warren-like market near the iconic Red Fort, ambled around the extensive tomb complex of the 15th-century emperor Humayan, took touristy photos at India Gate and were ambushed by a crafty henna artist (an insistent ten-year-old girl) who left James with masculinity-draining floral swirls on his hand.
Feeling refreshed and full of expectation, we packed up and launched into the several standstill lanes of traffic filtering onto the two-lane highway south to Agra. This road is the paved(ish) descendant of the Grand Trunk Road - North India's trade artery. Amongst this madness stoically plodded an ancient bull elephant with its sleeping mahout lolling on top. The creature seemed somehow removed from the noisy surroundings and I could easily picture him elsewhere with the same slow, determined gate but no impatient cars and auto rickshaws nudging his flanks.
Feeling refreshed and full of expectation, we packed up and launched into the several standstill lanes of traffic filtering onto the two-lane highway south to Agra. This road is the paved(ish) descendant of the Grand Trunk Road - North India's trade artery. Amongst this madness stoically plodded an ancient bull elephant with its sleeping mahout lolling on top. The creature seemed somehow removed from the noisy surroundings and I could easily picture him elsewhere with the same slow, determined gate but no impatient cars and auto rickshaws nudging his flanks.
The Red Fort in Old Delhi, India
Every sort of vehicle surged in the crush; three-manned motorbikes and rusty single-speed bicycles threaded through the seemingly impossible gaps that opened for an instant when a driver is too busy honking to quite hug the bumper ahead. There was dense dust, heady smog and unparalleled noise as all Indians amplify their melodic horns to a deafening volume. With red spotted handkerchiefs for facemasks, we bustled selfishly through, continually shouting at drivers and enjoying their wide-eyed surprise.
The unwritten rules of the road in India are comical:
-One must never look to either side, only forward. This also applies to those entering a roundabout at speed. Once you have overtaken someone they cease to exist as I discovered with a buckled wheel when a moped overtook me and braked sharply while cutting across me a second later.
-Never give way. A Spanish motorcyclist I met witnessed a brutal and apparently fatal head-on collision on a single lane road which he predicted several seconds earlier as he knew the stubborn nature of Indian drivers.
-Lastly, traffic lights and actual rules of the road are for the weak. I saw a traffic policeman almost run down by a car that rolled on and on towards him as he helplessly whistled and waved his white-gloved hands.
The annual road death toll on the roads is 100,000.
After two days southward bound we entered another scrum and needled our way through to the relative calm of a cluster of hostels near the Taj Mahal. We checked-in to a noisy groundfloor room for a nightly pittance and wandered around amongst the pairs of couply tourists, most of whom looked harassed, down-trodden and disgruntled. The following afternoon we grudgingly coughed up the exorbitant ticket price for the Taj Mahal (40 times the resident fare) and were swept inside amid an excited, chattering crowd. I almost enjoyed watching the struggle for the dead-centre photograph spot more than the building itself. The hordes of humanity swilling around the magnificent mausoleum somewhat robbed it of its spendour. I regretted ignoring the advice of several people and not going at sunrise. However, as the sun drooped lower and the white facade began to glow and ever-shifting array of soft sunset shades, the voices slightly faded and I saw why this landmark has earned its fame.
The unwritten rules of the road in India are comical:
-One must never look to either side, only forward. This also applies to those entering a roundabout at speed. Once you have overtaken someone they cease to exist as I discovered with a buckled wheel when a moped overtook me and braked sharply while cutting across me a second later.
-Never give way. A Spanish motorcyclist I met witnessed a brutal and apparently fatal head-on collision on a single lane road which he predicted several seconds earlier as he knew the stubborn nature of Indian drivers.
-Lastly, traffic lights and actual rules of the road are for the weak. I saw a traffic policeman almost run down by a car that rolled on and on towards him as he helplessly whistled and waved his white-gloved hands.
The annual road death toll on the roads is 100,000.
After two days southward bound we entered another scrum and needled our way through to the relative calm of a cluster of hostels near the Taj Mahal. We checked-in to a noisy groundfloor room for a nightly pittance and wandered around amongst the pairs of couply tourists, most of whom looked harassed, down-trodden and disgruntled. The following afternoon we grudgingly coughed up the exorbitant ticket price for the Taj Mahal (40 times the resident fare) and were swept inside amid an excited, chattering crowd. I almost enjoyed watching the struggle for the dead-centre photograph spot more than the building itself. The hordes of humanity swilling around the magnificent mausoleum somewhat robbed it of its spendour. I regretted ignoring the advice of several people and not going at sunrise. However, as the sun drooped lower and the white facade began to glow and ever-shifting array of soft sunset shades, the voices slightly faded and I saw why this landmark has earned its fame.
Visitor at the Taj Mahal, India
Shaving Jessie's head in Agra, India That night we passed in a bar successfully persuading an American girl to shave her head. I awoke with a hangover - my first in two months - and we shakily made our way onto a small road to the town of Etawah. It was Sunday and people lined the road washing, playing and watching the world pass by. The way was an avenue of rich verdure dotted with small villages. Long-suffering camels from the deserts of nearby Rajasthan strode enduringly along hauling carts and exuding dignity and majesty. Tethered buffalo grazed lazily in front of simple brick huts. The air was cool, slightly scented by fresh manure; our heads soon cleared and we relished every second.
There were people everywhere so we pitched camp in a cucumber field watched by a small crowd of uninteractive boys. This was to be only an early taste of the vast crowds that gathered around us anywhere we stopped. Scores of men and boys closed silently in and ringed us with a wall of indifferent gormlessness. They had understandably never seen anything like us and our bikes before but no onlookers ever appeared remotely interested. No one spoke, asked questions or offered to help but just stood; a mass of stick-thin men carelessly clogging the road with their hands slung loosely behind their backs. These gatherings were often 100 strong within a minute.
There were people everywhere so we pitched camp in a cucumber field watched by a small crowd of uninteractive boys. This was to be only an early taste of the vast crowds that gathered around us anywhere we stopped. Scores of men and boys closed silently in and ringed us with a wall of indifferent gormlessness. They had understandably never seen anything like us and our bikes before but no onlookers ever appeared remotely interested. No one spoke, asked questions or offered to help but just stood; a mass of stick-thin men carelessly clogging the road with their hands slung loosely behind their backs. These gatherings were often 100 strong within a minute.
The narrow backroad to Lucknow, India For the majority of the way to Lucknow we cut across country on bumpy three-meter wide roads. These paths wound through fields and were lined with towering bulrushes. Dry paddies awaited the spring monsoon while women harvested crops with trowel-sized sickles, neatly tying and stacking the sheaves. We passed a two-foot long lizard with a clear tire print running across its flattened back. Few cars plied this backwater and we had countless incomprehensible conversations with other cyclists. One night we asked villagers for permission to camp amongst a clump of trees where thousands of potatoes were laid out to dry. A crowd gathered and we slowly coaxed them into playing with a tennis ball. Someone fetched a cricket bat and we played with sticks for stumps; precariously prancing over the piles of potatoes.
Playing cricket amongst potatoes in a small village in Uttar Pradesh, India
The narrow back roads eventually joined a larger one which crossed a vast tributary of the Ganges. James was behind me on the bridge and later caught up ashen-faced. He had spotted about 50 corpses dumped in the Holy River. A mass of swollen bodies, splayed hair and angular limbs jutting out of the mudflats.
During the final ride into Lucknow I practiced the Indian head tilt/wobble. An utterly ambiguous gesture that can mean "yes", "no", "what?", "I don't know", and much more besides. A man at an endearingly rustic barbershop (a chair in front of a larger tree with small shelf and mirror attached) wobbled his lathered face enthusiastically as we passed and small groups of lethargic, elderly men gave a more somber equivalent.
During the final ride into Lucknow I practiced the Indian head tilt/wobble. An utterly ambiguous gesture that can mean "yes", "no", "what?", "I don't know", and much more besides. A man at an endearingly rustic barbershop (a chair in front of a larger tree with small shelf and mirror attached) wobbled his lathered face enthusiastically as we passed and small groups of lethargic, elderly men gave a more somber equivalent.
The bullet-riddled ruins Lucknow Residency Once a grand colonial capital, today Lucknow receives relatively few tourists. Due to extensive road reconstruction when we visited, the centre was a hellish, grainy blur of dense dust. We took sanctuary with a stroll through the extensive Residency where British administrators lived until it was besieged during the First Great War of Independence (known in Britain as the Indian Mutiny) of 1857. The picturesque ruins are pockmarked with bullet holes and occasionally anti-British graffiti. The once manicured grounds are now in a charming state of mild overgrowth and partial neglect. Young Indian couples come here to walk hand in hand and laze on the lawns. It was a strangely tranquil area despite the roar of a nearby riot being "controlled' by the police "using sticks".
Heading north we took another rutted road with several railway crossings which were always busy. These provided comical scenes and a perfect example of Indian drivers being not so much reckless as witless. The train would pass, the barriers would lift and the cars on each side would suddenly realise that spreading across both lanes causes havoc when everyone lurches forward only to reach a bumper to bumper standstill in the middle of the rails.
We arrived at the Nepalese border which appeared to be unmonitored. People flooded across in both directions unhindered. Eventually we found the Nepalese immigration building which we had passed by accident completely unchallenged. Beyond the border the world transformed. Uttar Pradesh (the Indian province we had crossed) is perfectly flat but now the road tilted upwards and the Himalayan foothills soon loomed ahead; a daunting green barrier that appears vertical from a distance. The people changed too. Friendly oriental faces smiled on all sides. Waves, cheers, "welcomes", girls on bikes, cheap Chinese-made western clothes and an end to the indifference of India.
Heading north we took another rutted road with several railway crossings which were always busy. These provided comical scenes and a perfect example of Indian drivers being not so much reckless as witless. The train would pass, the barriers would lift and the cars on each side would suddenly realise that spreading across both lanes causes havoc when everyone lurches forward only to reach a bumper to bumper standstill in the middle of the rails.
We arrived at the Nepalese border which appeared to be unmonitored. People flooded across in both directions unhindered. Eventually we found the Nepalese immigration building which we had passed by accident completely unchallenged. Beyond the border the world transformed. Uttar Pradesh (the Indian province we had crossed) is perfectly flat but now the road tilted upwards and the Himalayan foothills soon loomed ahead; a daunting green barrier that appears vertical from a distance. The people changed too. Friendly oriental faces smiled on all sides. Waves, cheers, "welcomes", girls on bikes, cheap Chinese-made western clothes and an end to the indifference of India.
The narrow road to Nepal, India
Camping by a river, Far Western Nepal Reaching the hills, we plunged into forest. Monkeys chattered on either side of the road and occasionally would lope across the tarmac; a lively, playing troop with large elders standing sentry. We camped near an alligator infested river in an idyllic clearing with a campfire and music playing on the speakers. We didn't need to hide. No one knew we were there and no one came and stared. The peace was overwhelming.
The sweat and toil of hills came as a welcome change. We rolled through small villages on thickly-treed hillsides where beautiful girls giggled and children waved, shouting "bye bye". At lunchtimes we ducked (literally - James' 6ft 4in height was once proclaimed "most excellent") into thatch huts and ordered dhal bhat, the nation's staple dish of rice with lentil soup. The best thing about this meal is that it is all you can eat... a cyclist's dream. Your plate is repeatedly re-heaped until you vehemently refuse more. A sweet but spicy masala tea perfectly rounds off the feast.
In the busy junction town of Butwal we turned north again and were soon making great, echoing shouts of joy while slaloming slowly up a narrow ravine with sheer green walls shooting skywards. The hills became mountains with sweaty switchbacks and windless December warmth. When the valleys opened, the slopes were beautifully contoured by immaculate terracing. Not a single square yard of space is wasted. The pace of life generally looks relaxed but hoeing the soil while a buffalo hauls a harrow lookes exhausting.
The sweat and toil of hills came as a welcome change. We rolled through small villages on thickly-treed hillsides where beautiful girls giggled and children waved, shouting "bye bye". At lunchtimes we ducked (literally - James' 6ft 4in height was once proclaimed "most excellent") into thatch huts and ordered dhal bhat, the nation's staple dish of rice with lentil soup. The best thing about this meal is that it is all you can eat... a cyclist's dream. Your plate is repeatedly re-heaped until you vehemently refuse more. A sweet but spicy masala tea perfectly rounds off the feast.
In the busy junction town of Butwal we turned north again and were soon making great, echoing shouts of joy while slaloming slowly up a narrow ravine with sheer green walls shooting skywards. The hills became mountains with sweaty switchbacks and windless December warmth. When the valleys opened, the slopes were beautifully contoured by immaculate terracing. Not a single square yard of space is wasted. The pace of life generally looks relaxed but hoeing the soil while a buffalo hauls a harrow lookes exhausting.
Making lunch in a bus stop, Western Nepal
View from the road to Pokhara, Nepal The views from the top of each climb added to our breathlessness and left us with crazed grins; the silver thread of a distant river shimmering in the distance and the several hues of golden-green as the afternoon sun ripens. In our excitement, we added extra fervour to our greetings of "Namaste!" to passersby. These were always returned with respectful bows and hands clasped together in a prayer-like gesture.
However, about thirty miles from the tourist hive of Pokhara, attitudes altered. Children chased us giving frantically imperative cries of "give me money!" "Namaste" was replaced by "tourist!" and I had a child tryi to haul my moving bike backwards downhill and another preparing to throw a stone.
However, about thirty miles from the tourist hive of Pokhara, attitudes altered. Children chased us giving frantically imperative cries of "give me money!" "Namaste" was replaced by "tourist!" and I had a child tryi to haul my moving bike backwards downhill and another preparing to throw a stone.
The Annapurna range above Pokhara, Nepal
Paddling on the Phewa Lake in Pokhara, Nepal Pokhara had many scattered tourists milling around in twos and threes. Set on a lake, surrounded by mountains and providing excellent views of the Annapurnas (several vast 8,000m plus mountains with perpetual snowcaps) the town is a hub for hikers, mountaineers, sight-seers and just about every visitor to the country. We negotiated a decent low-season price for a room and spent a couple of days swimming in and rowing on the lake, eating and unwinding. We climbed to a Buddhist pagoda set high on a hilltop and gaped at the white peaks hovering above a purplish haze. Paragliders floated back and forth to the north and several large brown birds of prey did so to the south.
The road to Kathmandu, Nepal The final three days to Kathmandu was the most challenging part of this leg. It was almost entirely uphill and fast buses swung out around blind corners on daunting precipices. Many had "drive slow, live long" proclaimed on the back and one had foot-high litters on the side reading "OPEN HEART" suggesting the type of surgery one might need after a journey.
Misty morning on the road to Kathmandu, Nepal In the mornings thick mist gradually rose, revealing towering valley sides and giving a strange illumination to the richly coloured river alongside us; a vivid shock of vibrant turquoise. The road crescendoed with a twenty five mile climb to a steep pass from which we descended an easily to Kathmandu and found a basic room in Thamel - the lively tourist district, thrumming with restaurants, bars, clubs and souvenir shops. Certainly busy enough to make me miss the mountains.
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