tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55212704431021006922024-03-19T03:02:24.457-07:00cycling from Darlington to...somewhereDean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-10983249210431792582012-10-02T12:33:00.000-07:002012-10-02T12:35:19.352-07:00Last Days on the Road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px;"><i>Adventures make one late for dinner</i> - Bilbo Baggins<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></span><br />
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
So I'm now back in the UK. I'm home. End of trip. That's enough of adventure for me for now. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
It's tempting to write an Oscar speech thanking everyone, and gushing about how fabulous it all was. But I ain't gonna. I've thanked everyone in person, or with sweets, and, well, it wasn't all fabulous. There were amazing times, days and weeks of blissful cycling and wandering, but some days were hard. There were occasions when I just wanted to give up and go home, or at least go somewhere cooler than the baking heat of a north Indian summer. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I was probably ready for a break, but in the end I was defeated by circumstances.<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The first thing to happen was that my sister called to tell me that dad was in hospital. If I hadn't had my emergency passport and a concomitant load of admin in order to change my travel plans, I'd have gone straight to Delhi and caught the next flight home. However, I decided to wait an extra day in Nahan, wait for a call from home and watch the England vs Italy quarter final. Dad seemed to be improving, and to no one's surprise he told me to carry on. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I was worried about him, and my heart really wasn't in it any more. The depressing football match didn't help. I hadn't been enjoying much of the cycling as it was too damn hot and I was having to take a huge detour to get to where I wanted to be. I thought I was a week, at most, away from getting into the high Himalayas where it would be cooler, and quieter, and better. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The next morning, I was moving slowly. It was eleven o'clock before I left the hotel, preparing to ride into the hottest part of the day, which is tough at the best of times, and I was having second thoughts about bothering. I had repaired my gear shifters only the day before, as I thought they were the source of my mechanical problem. But the bike had also felt unaccountably weird, as if it was canting to one side, leading me to think that I'd got the weight distribution wrong... I leant the bike against a wall in Nahan and gave it an experimental kick. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The whole rear end moved. That's not good. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I looked closer, and the right side chainstay had sheared off. It was obvious that this was the source of the gear changing problems on the ride up, and it seemed even more obvious that it was the end of my trip. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I rolled back to my hotel and ordered tea and toast at the restaurant. I was going to strip the bike down, salvage what I could, chuck the rest in a skip and go home. There actually was a skip around the corner from the hotel. I'd just have to make sure I didn't brain any monkeys when I threw the frame in.<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
While I was sulking, the hotel manager came in and looked at me. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
"Why are you still here?" he asked. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I explained, and took him outside to show him the problem. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
He looked down at the bike, gave the rear end a shove and said "This is not a problem. We can fix this."<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
We chucked my bike in his jeep and went down to his mate Vishwal's welding shop, only a five minute drive away, chatting about his drive through Kinnaur and Spiti on the way. That's where I had been planning to go next.<br />
<br /></div>
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7986023224/" title="Vishwal welding my bike in Nahan by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Vishwal welding my bike in Nahan" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8296/7986023224_e31feafe35_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
The welding shop was as ramshackle as you'd expect, with a dog asleep amidst a tangle of wires, and enough bits to make the halfs of six or seven vehicles, but not a complete car or auto-rickshaw in sight. Still, Vishwal clearly knew his trade, and... well, here's the video. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7522167806/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7522167806/</a><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Good on you, Vishwal. Half an hour later we were back at the hotel and the staff were taking my bike for test rides around Nahan's alleys. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Nevertheless, I was on the bus back to Delhi the next day. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I always thought that there were two things which could make me end my trip early (assuming that I avoided injury and stayed sane); an emergency at home, or a catastrophic failure to my bike, such as the frame breaking. Both of those happened, and on the same day. I can recognise an ending when I see it. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I stayed in a decent hotel, and though I had a couple of days negotiating with Indian officials to organise my visa, it was relatively straightforward. I was an old lag at it by then. A couple of pleasant flights over the Hindu Kush and up the English east coast and I was back, dazed, enjoying the proper skies and late nights that an English summer offers. Not to mention the food. I arrived for my sister's 40th birthday dinner, at your typical English country pub with your typical English country pub food. I had the roast dinner, of course. With a few pints of beer. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
I've now been back more than two months, which feels like no time at all. It's been fabulous to see my friends and family again, and easy too. Too easy, hence the length of time it's taken to update this.<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
It might be better to have come back so suddenly, rather than having had a drawn-out countdown. But, there's so much I didn't get to see. I'm particularly disappointed to have been so close to the Indian Himalayas, and to have been turned back, first by military-controlled zones, then by events. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Needless to say, it's now time to start planning a different trip, and a different bike. I was very pleased not to have to hoy my bike into a skip in India, and to be able to being it home. The weld's still going strong. </div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Too much to say here. Which is the reason this has taken me so long to finish; I've so much left to say that I didn't know how to fit it all in. But that's how the journey came to a premature end, and look out for the book (which I need to get around to writing). I didn't put everything into the blog, so there are a few good stories you've yet to read. I'll see you all on the road somewhere.<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
Dean<span style="font: 13.0px Arial;"> </span></div>
<div style="font: 13.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7506792848/" title="rainbow at the Fox Covert by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="rainbow at the Fox Covert" height="233" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7139/7506792848_f4df4b67f4_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-37542275697476286112012-06-24T09:33:00.001-07:002012-06-24T09:33:39.269-07:00Access Denied Part 2Day 317, 23/06/2012 - ???, Kalsi, u-turn, Vikasnagar, Paonta Sahib, NH7, Nahan: 53.85 miles, 5:45:04, 27.2 mph max, 9149.5 miles total<br />
<br />
What a frustrating day. The highway to Chakrata is also closed to foreigners. I was turned away by a smiling but firm policeman, and had to bring out my map and re-route again. <br />
<br />
I did enjoy the first bit of riding, though, breaking out of the Yamuna gorge and into light woodland alongside one of the Yamuna's tributaries. The debris from the previous day's deluge still covered the roads, which for a moment reminded me of an English autumn on country lanes, until I was struck by the heat and the lush greenness of the foliage. <br />
<br />
Although there was a possible route along minor roads on my Eicher map, this was not supported by Google maps, and I wasn't willing to take the chance of being turned back again, either at another restricted zone or at a dead end. The Eicher maps are pretty good, except when they're not. <br />
<br />
My new route, therefore, is up to Shimla and from there I'll retrace to my planned route along the Lahaul and Spiti valleys and up to Leh. It probably adds at least 70 miles to the journey, as well as being along busier roads, but it doesn't affect my plans that much; as long as I get to Leh I'll be content. I could ride 25 miles a day and take a week off, and still be in Leh in less than a month, which leaves plenty of time before my flight from Delhi on the fifth of August. <br />
<br />
It was frustrating still to be in the plains and enduring the heat, though. It was an extremely dull ride, until the last five miles, where it was a bit too interesting. <br />
<br />
As well as the 500 metres of climbing on the five miles up to Nahan (another former British hill station atop a ridge, continuing the theme which began with Mussourie and will continue with Shimla in a day or two), my gears started playing up. Literally: the lever has lost friction, and the bike won't stay in the lowest gear, which was crippling on such a steep hill. <br />
<br />
While I was asking the internet for help, loads of cheerful Sikhs came up and demanded photos, although I tried to explain that I was busy. They didn't believe me. <br />
<br />
I've fixed the problem well enough, for now. I've had some news from home (not too bad, thankfully) which prompted me to have a day off in Nahan, and I can think of worse places to spend a day. It's not as tacky or crowded or as expensive as Mussourie, has a few relics from the Raj, including the Lytton Memorial, commonly known as Delhi Gate. I think this is a memorial to Robert Bulwer-Lytton, former Viceroy General of India, rather than Edward of "it was a dark and stormy night" notoriety. Nahan has a relaxed air and a huge open space at the centre where people are playing cricket and football and netball. It's still bloody hot, but the maximum temperature is about 37 degrees, rather than the 40+ lower down. <br />
<br />
I hope to get to Shimla in one day, but I doubt I'll be able to. It's nearly eighty miles, 1200 metres higher, and I'll be crossing enough hills in high temperatures to suggest that one day is a bit ambitious. However, as I have to take time off in Shimla to organise my in-line permit (which is required for foreigners who plan to travel along the road through Lahaul and Spiti, as it goes within a couple of miles of the sensitive Chinese/Tibetan border), I don't need to worry about saving my strength for the next day. I'm also hoping for it to be cooler as I get away from the plains. The roads I'm following go well over 5000 metres, where the effects of the altitude will make cycling extremely tough, but at least it'll be a different challenge to hills-n-heat, and I think I deserve a sweet spot between the cruel heat and the gasping altitude where I can sit back and enjoy the cycling. <br />
<br />
Actually, forget that. I'll just be pleased if I can ride along all the roads without being turned back as an unwelcome foreigner. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyieTIseKzWtOicjT9SsZWHRd6j2Yv6-j4LEH3rD3x9T6KFPoW5ZtMGFOnJIiWKMNtXjHNlKt5lZuhugWnbKQfEZwz9QvbSpKPnkeG6NUsF52g0agd80HZMmDqmkGfF6DWoVv43eADC4/s640/blogger-image--1413880190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyieTIseKzWtOicjT9SsZWHRd6j2Yv6-j4LEH3rD3x9T6KFPoW5ZtMGFOnJIiWKMNtXjHNlKt5lZuhugWnbKQfEZwz9QvbSpKPnkeG6NUsF52g0agd80HZMmDqmkGfF6DWoVv43eADC4/s640/blogger-image--1413880190.jpg" /></a></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-35670980203414771462012-06-24T08:08:00.001-07:002012-09-14T10:43:40.938-07:00Access Denied: No Room at the Ashram<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 316, 22/06/2012 - Mussourie, Kemptie Falls, Yamuna Bridge, detour, Juddo, ???: 41.68 miles, 3:37:17, 33.0 mph max, 9098.6 miles total<br />
<br />
Turns out, my hotel had only been a mile from the Mall at the centre of Mussourie, though it was quite a mile! The road up to The Mall rejoices in the name of Palpitation Slope. I stopped for breakfast halfway up. <br />
<br />
Mussourie was busy and a bit scruffy. The other former British hill station I'd visited, Shimla, was much cleaner and better kept. I pushed on, and downwards. <br />
<br />
My route was to take me by the most direct route available into the hills; minor roads were marked on my map going from Mussourie to Yamuna Bridge, Chakrata, Rohru and Reckong Peo (I'll put up a link when I get to a proper computer).<br />
<br />
This started well, though on the eighteen-mile descent to Yamuna Bridge I lost nearly all the height I'd gained. I had hoped to get high and stay up in the cooler air, but I had at least this one valley to cross, and probably more, so more hard work in the heat. <br />
<br />
Not that the descent wasn't fun. There was quite a lot of traffic down to the spectacular but overdeveloped Kemptie Falls, but I soon left the bustle behind, and got to practise my racing line on the hairpins. <br />
<br />
The Yamuna was clean and bright at this stage of its journey, unlike the mucky sewer which you can smell from half a mile away in Delhi, and it cuts a great cleft through the hills. It was a steep climb back out of the valley. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7986027962/" title="Yamuna Bridge by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Yamuna Bridge" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8454/7986027962_767b67d971_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
I took the unmarked minor road towards Chakrata, and had to take a few breaks to escape the sun. There was a handy bus shelter. As the road went up the surface became imperceptibly worse, until I noticed I'd left the tarmac behind. I was riding so slowly, I didn't notice the change until I was riding across loose rock rather than worn tarmac, and my speed fell from about 4 mph to about 2.5 mph. Still, it was only 25 miles to Chakrata, and I'd be picking up the highway again after another ten miles. I expected to be there before dark. <br />
<br />
There was very little other traffic, but a jeep driver waved me down and told me that I couldn't go any further as the road was restricted. Apparently it's a military area, so no foreigners. I thought about ignoring him, but I wasn't very far up the road, and there was a highway up to Chakrata which took me back down the Yamuna for only seven miles or so; it was better to turn back then, rather than in another ten miles. <br />
<br />
A quick swoop downhill back to the highway, then. I'd only come two and a half miles up that road, and I really enjoyed Highway 507, along the Yamuna gorge. Towering hills, the rush of the river below, a smooth surface (mostly), and a friendly downhill gradient. I'd have to make up all of the height again, and there was no chance of getting to Chakrata today, but I was enjoying the moment. I stopped for a snack in Juddo and asked the locals if there was a guest house nearby; the shopkeeper told me there was one in another eight kilometres. <br />
<br />
The road deteriorated a bit after that. Actually, there are two roads alongside the river, Highway 507 on the north bank and the minor road at the south which I was following, which had suffered from landslides and water run-off caused by the monsoons. Stretches of smooth tarmac were interrupted by rocky sections which shook my luggage and my teeth. <br />
<br />
I didn't see any guest houses, and when it started to rain, I only stopped to put my valuables inside my panniers. I didn't bother with a rain jacket - it was still hot, there was no point. <br />
<br />
The rain worsened. Still no guest house. Eventually the rain became so bad that I had to stop. This must be what the monsoon is like, I thought. The wind was whipping about, driving the rain into my face, and the potholes became invisible under the water. I've never experienced rain like that. Even inside the restaurant where I stopped, the rain was being driven inside, over the balcony, into the restaurant, and into the bedrooms. I looked back up the valley; the dry streambed which I'd passed five minutes earlier was now a torrent of mud. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwg5_VH2PSIXQU4HuwXlU2tu9AbiwUKCNEp3sQlvAsjQky0GI4C3XVk-FAByffs3TAD7VoV1e_QJFEhWb7wvpqP9QSzThKq-oaHimTfuaFswyMKJpGcPzbawGFZVbBg82hHxqe7TJtLjw/s640/blogger-image-1055477523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwg5_VH2PSIXQU4HuwXlU2tu9AbiwUKCNEp3sQlvAsjQky0GI4C3XVk-FAByffs3TAD7VoV1e_QJFEhWb7wvpqP9QSzThKq-oaHimTfuaFswyMKJpGcPzbawGFZVbBg82hHxqe7TJtLjw/s640/blogger-image-1055477523.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU221MCyZIkC4YXOYUc3GhFmIAOWAhtrpbKrlD_LvTUHxTF4q1LTkxZ77CThBjMWxBRe7TRh2OTbDwrmRquwbRjW9P7stpCB6K_ipWKEJt_e0i9xKhysNqLg-HqWrWPC3mIKgPo-3e2po/s640/blogger-image--149807806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU221MCyZIkC4YXOYUc3GhFmIAOWAhtrpbKrlD_LvTUHxTF4q1LTkxZ77CThBjMWxBRe7TRh2OTbDwrmRquwbRjW9P7stpCB6K_ipWKEJt_e0i9xKhysNqLg-HqWrWPC3mIKgPo-3e2po/s640/blogger-image--149807806.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
The guys were pleased to see it, as it's been an unusually dry year, but it wasn't fitting in with my plans. I wasn't going anywhere until the rain stopped, and it was simply getting worse. <br />
<br />
The lad at the restaurant told me that I'd already passed the guest house. In fact, it was the ashram a kilometre back, which I had noticed but ignored as it appeared to be closed. I liked the idea of spending a night at an ashram, but this lad called the caretaker, and it was already full with a pack of English and Swedish students there for a retreat. <br />
<br />
Luckily, he said I could stay there for the night. He offered me his own bed, but I said that was daft, as I had a sleeping bag and bivvy bag, which I happily used to bed down on the balcony. It was pleasantly cool. The whole family came to talk to me, and we talked about cricket and and offers of marriage, amongst other random subjects, until they realised how tired I was and let me get some sleep. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7986029078/" title="my bed for the night by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="my bed for the night" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8442/7986029078_e5a96f8021_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br /></div>
Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-51537383246474892452012-06-24T07:56:00.001-07:002012-06-24T10:27:27.401-07:00Ra Ra Rishikesh(from now, I'm going to try to post something for each day's cycling - this is the first)<br />
<br />
Day 315, 21/06/2012 - Rishikesh, Joli Grant, Dehra Dun, Rajpur, Mussourie: 52.44 miles, 6:37:10, 28.1 mph max, 9057.0 miles total<br />
<br />
This was my third visit to Rishikesh, and the more I saw of it, the more I liked it. The first time I was there, I was still new to India and overwhelmed by the frenetic activity of the place, as I'd been led to expect a peaceful riverside enclave. It's as mad and tacky as ever, still full of fake sages and ear-cleaning salesmen, still awash with tourists seeking enlightenment or oblivion. But unlike a lot of Indian cities, it has individuality, an atmosphere not quite like anywhere else I've visited in India. And above all, it still has that magnificent setting, perched in the gorge where the Ganga leaves behind the mountains. <br />
<br />
I spent a couple more days there than I'd planned to, but I did stick to my plan of starting cycling just before dawn, to avoid the midday scorching. For reasons too tedious to list, I was awake at ten pm, and spent the night packing and drinking coffee until there was enough light in the sky at about 4.30. Rishikesh centre was bustling, even then. <br />
<br />
I like the road from Rishikesh to Joli Grant Airport, which I rode in the other direction in April. It's wide and smooth and quiet, passing through light jungle above a dry monsoon river bed. I was half-hoping to see elephants at the early morning, as the road is lined with signs such as "Beware Wild Elephants" and "Elephants Have Right of Way", but they must have been asleep in their hammocks in the tree canopy by then. There were packs of monkeys, though, which I rode through warily as they watched me pass. <br />
<br />
The road went gently up, then gave a gentle descent towards Dehra Dun, state capital of Uttararkhand. I had no particular urge to visit it, and followed the bypass towards Mussourie, a former British hill station. It's now a popular holiday destination for Indians to escape the sweltering heat of the plains - that road was busy. <br />
<br />
It was also very very up. Mussourie is atop a ridge at 2000 metres ASL, and Dehra Dun is about 650 metres ASL. Most of the climbing was compressed into the last 15 miles, especially once I'd passed Rajpur. A smiling, bespectacled old Indian gent in Rajpur saw me, stopped, lowered his umbrella and gave me an amused look, much more focussed than your average blank Indian stare. <br />
<br />
I smiled back and offered a hello. <br />
<br />
"Going to be tough," he said.<br />
<br />
"Thanks!"<br />
<br />
He wasn't wrong, though. I'd forgotten to eat since my second breakfast at 7.30 am (that Indian classic, butter toast), and when my legs came over all wobbly at about 1500 metres ASL, I had to stop and guzzle some Pringles. I did stop frequently at the many tea stands, but that was mainly to take on liquid. The heat smothered my appetite. <br />
<br />
It was, however, getting cooler as I climbed higher. A breeze was coming up the Dehra Dun valley, and I carried on through the heat of the day. <br />
<br />
I'd only planned to get to Mussourie as this was my first significant ride for nearly a month, and I wanted to ease my way back in gently. Also, with the amount of climbing in the heat I expected, I was never going to manage my usual 60-70 miles for a day. <br />
<br />
Anyway, what with the lack of miles in my legs, the heat (it was a relatively balmy 35 degrees in Mussourie when I arrived) and lack of fuel, I was knackered. Not to mention a sharp pain down the side of my right leg when I pedalled, which I thought might be related to saddle height; I've swapped my pedals for flat pedals, so I raised my seat to compensate, which didn't help much. <br />
<br />
I asked at a couple of hotels, but they were so expensive, as you'd expect at high season, but I balked at paying 1500 rupees just to camp. The youth hostel (I quite enjoyed having a look around this place, in many ways it was your classic British youth hostel, but also distinctly Indian in character) was full. I checked into a dingy, over-priced hotel when I couldn't be bothered to go any further, and slept away twelve hours. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MfAVx49ow9ky99hNHbyyyu57nlHSugAKxEqqe6QiDQ7uBXsE69GNbKsEysIDnwGWS8HPIZUH8j1WG-cjiJ7jQNHHE1EXE0su4jM2-NDdKnze9tp8VtCkdpvWli7asH6oON9VKmbMbyk/s640/blogger-image--28194685.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MfAVx49ow9ky99hNHbyyyu57nlHSugAKxEqqe6QiDQ7uBXsE69GNbKsEysIDnwGWS8HPIZUH8j1WG-cjiJ7jQNHHE1EXE0su4jM2-NDdKnze9tp8VtCkdpvWli7asH6oON9VKmbMbyk/s640/blogger-image--28194685.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-DP9ZApHKZP-HvAi2IIrnL7KTPj2FQPc7VXToYFAvWhPMzZiFMpsn0SfEIabSwPHExd-v0U2VwsHWQlisJee3smog5dKrlA5dTJvQXlmYAdGSwOhzIy6hNfmaigRYSl6lLPMeIMqH6o/s640/blogger-image-1906917887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-DP9ZApHKZP-HvAi2IIrnL7KTPj2FQPc7VXToYFAvWhPMzZiFMpsn0SfEIabSwPHExd-v0U2VwsHWQlisJee3smog5dKrlA5dTJvQXlmYAdGSwOhzIy6hNfmaigRYSl6lLPMeIMqH6o/s640/blogger-image-1906917887.jpg" /></a></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-70599289300327963312012-06-19T02:00:00.000-07:002012-06-19T02:00:29.377-07:00It's Not All Yak Burgers and Mountains, You Know<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHf_mfIyWG8SJQutHTYiad0XDfrtGqMpf2bW6osIlvuq4H7_98kWouxufHR1bkLZz0fBUjHvSVCKH_UZa-oFV40_nJ9gvVjUS8B2Myvq0f5NLBqixWsVkZSpRFcGhjKTORRfrk65WtD4k/s1600/Picture+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHf_mfIyWG8SJQutHTYiad0XDfrtGqMpf2bW6osIlvuq4H7_98kWouxufHR1bkLZz0fBUjHvSVCKH_UZa-oFV40_nJ9gvVjUS8B2Myvq0f5NLBqixWsVkZSpRFcGhjKTORRfrk65WtD4k/s320/Picture+015.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Or, the admin. The paperwork. The tedious side of cycle touring. Kicking around in cities, lurking around heavily-guarded embassies and shabby government offices, applying for visas while aching to get on the road again, negotiating with recalcitrant officials and curmudgeonly security staff, not to mention the waiting. The cycling is a simple freedom, but when I do fly free, it's upon wings pasted together with paperwork and application forms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I'm hardly new to the myriad ways of foreign governments and the administrative puzzles they offer. In Erzurum, where I collected my Iranian visa, the internet offered three different addresses for the Iranian Consulate, not one of which was accurate, and when I called them to ask where they were, they ignored my question and asked me to provide information which I would only have when I had received my visa, from the embassy which I couldn't find. In Istanbul, my parcel of bits from home was impounded by customs; however, they didn't tell me that it had been impounded, not by letter, e-mail, telephone, carrier pigeon or telepathy. But in the same way that there are no hills worse than gratuitous hills, there's no admin worse than self-inflicted admin. This time, it was my own fault.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I'd already endured a week in Kathmandu to arrange my second Indian visa, which involved three trips to the embassy and two encounters with the Indian Embassy Official. I've met some miserable government employees in my time, but this guy takes the grumpy biscuit. Somewhere, there's a Finishing School for Obstructionist Government Staff, and he not only graduated with full honours, he was awarded the Surly Certificate for Outstanding Jobsworthiness, in triplicate. All I wanted was to get a second Indian visa*, and I did get it, and he was willing to listen to reason and wasn't entirely impervious to charm, but his ability to transform a simple request into an official appeal was peerless.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">While on the Annapurna trek, I'd noticed that my passport was damaged. The ink on my ID photo had ran and the pages were crinkled with damp. This must have happened during my very wet run into Pokhara, and the waterproof case in which I kept my passport had proven to be only semi-waterproof: not so good at keeping water out, very useful for keeping water in. Thijs expressed surprise that the page itself wasn't waterproof, but you can't expect the Passport Agency to anticipate every idiotic eventuality. I shrugged with my usual fatalism and caught the bus to Kathmandu, hoping that the embassy could issue me a letter confirming that it was still a valid passport, and stamp the thing a few times.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The bus wasn't much fun. It was five hours to Besishahar, another three hours waiting for my bike to be sent down the valley by the hotel in Chamje**, two more hours back to Dumre, then another five hours and a massive fleecing from Dumre to Kathmandu. I should have seen the guy coming in Dumre. He probably overcharged me to start with, as we agreed a price of 1000 rupees for the minibus to Kathmandu, including the bike. I was too free with telling him about my passport woes, and he fed me a line about another strike being due, which would close the Briish Embassy in a couple of days, and another line about the local buses having finished. Still, I was keen to get to Kathmandu that night, as I'd already had an extra day off in Pokhara. Then he came and told me that only three other people were taking the minibus to Kathmandu, so I'd have to pay 2000 rupees to make it worth the driver's while. Naturally enough, when it arrived, the thing was chock-a. They were already strapping my bike to the roof, but I told them to bring it down as I was not paying 2000 rupees to be squeezed into the worst seat on a cramped minibus. He told me that these people were just going down the road, not all the way to Kathmandu, and in hindsight I should have asked the other passengers where they were all going, but the price soon came down to 1500, then 1200, when I weakened and agreed to pay, but I had a cunning plan. I only had 1000 rupees in my wallet, so I waited until I was seated and told him he'd have to take that. The bugger noticed my Indian rupees which I was trying to hide, and I did have to pay the extra 200. Public transport is one administrative burden I usually manage to avoid, but that does mean I haven't a clue about how much it's supposed to cost. And can you guess how many of my fellow passengers got off before Kathmandu?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I did get to Kathmandu that day, though, and I was at the British embassy before they opened the next morning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Sadly, the state of my passport meant that it wouldn't be accepted. I would either have to get a replacement (and wait five to six weeks), or get an emergency passport, which would take about a week. The emergency passport, however, would tie me into a fixed itinerary with little room for manoeuvre.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The wait for a passport would be expensive, although I could go on the Everest Base Camp trek (twice!), but I'd miss the window for cycling through Ladakh and the Indian Himalayas. The emergency passport denied the possibility of changing my plans, but it does fit in with the plan I already had, which is to return to Europe when my Indian visa expires on the seventh of August, ride across the Alps and France, and return to the UK at the White Cliffs of Dover, which is the correct way to go back to England. I already had this as a plan, with only the dim possibility of being able to transit Burma as the last hope of continuing by land, rather than air. Even Tibet has become even more impossible, as the authorities now only issue visas to groups of no less than four, all of whom have to be from the same country. I did meet a couple of Scots in Kathmandu who offered to get bikes and help me shanghai another Brit...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I set out to cycle, not to take buses or trains, and certainly not to fly except where bodies of water left no alternative. This does put me at odds with the modern world, and I've had interesting times explaining this to other travellers who take flying for granted, but each time honesty compels me to tell people I had to fly into India, I know I'm already defeated, and to carry on to Australia, which would probably require another two flights, would just compound it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">So, although the embassy staff tried to discourage me, as it is very limiting, the same price as a new passport, and can create problems when crossing borders, I decided to get an emergency passport.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">That was only the beginning of the paperwork. I had to check with the Indian and Nepali authorities that they would be able to transfer my visas to an emergency travel document. This was an exercise in patience, grit and determination in the face of practised opposition.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The Indian Embassy in Kathmandu is over the road from the British Embassy, so that bit was easy. Getting a straight answer to a simple question - "will I be able to transfer my visa to an emergency passport?" - was less so. The counter staff refused to say yay or nay, and referred me up to the Embassy Official.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">He really is a classic. Short and wiry and bristling with outrage at being sent to this backwater post when he should be brushing shoulders with the diplomatic corps in Washington or Beijing, he takes his revenge by using what little authority he has to make everyone's lives a little more difficult. A bully. Asked any question, he'll grab the papers, peer at them over the top of his glasses, chew the corner of his salt-and-pepper moustache, and give the same answer: "No." He plays by the rules, and Rule One is to say "No" to everything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">A student from Mauritius was asking him a question when I was there, but since "No" didn't deflate the lad and he started to argue his case, the official was forced to engage Rule Two: Brook No Argument. He waved his hand at the student and said "there is no must, you will not tell me must" (this is a sub-clause of Rule Two, always throw the person's words back a them). The Mauritian student went off in tears, another supplicant was refused, then it was my turn.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I dodged Rules One and Two by continuing to talk while he examined the paperwork, and overriding his objections. This provoked him to enact Rule Three: Find A Different Problem. It turned out, nobody had countersigned my visa when I'd been given it at that embassy. I hurdled this obstacle and left with the vague impression that they might, possibly, consider transferring my visa, but that was the most I was going to get, and it had taken three hours. I planned to finagle that vague assurance into a guarantee when I returned.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I took a taxi to the Nepali Immigration Office, asked the same question of a chap at the counter, who immediately said that they would be happy to transfer my visa - I'd just need to go to the third floor admin section when I had my emergency passport. With the time spent pissing about at the Indian embassy, the British embassy had closed for the day when I returned with my forms and documents. I had to go back in the morning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">A week and a half later I was called back to the British Embassy to collect my emergency passport. A week and a half was about a week longer than I'd expected it to take, but the time had bridged a weekend and two public holidays, and all the embassy staff were busy with a missing persons case after a young lad had gone missing while on the Everest Base Camp trek. I understood the delay, and the British embassy staff were pretty good about laying out my options, telling me what to expect, and what documents they needed from me. I think an emergency passport is quite an interesting document to have, and I'd love to keep it as a souvenir, but as well as informing me that I may have some problems with border crossings where they don't meet that kind of thing, the embassy staff told me that it would be taken from me as soon as I return to the sceptr'd isle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I dashed over the road to the Indian embassy. The same fucking arguments again. I did lose my temper this time, but some testiness was called for when the primary obstruction seemed to be that my visa hadn't been countersigned. As I was at pains to point out, this was their mistake, which I expected them to resolve. Perhaps it's just as well that I did ruin my passport, even if it cost £95 to replace - as well as the travel and accommodation costs and the 900 rupees the Indians had the gall to charge as a transfer fee, and the cost of yet more photos as the paperwork from my original Indian visa application was stored elsewhere, and I had to fill all the forms in again - as the thought of being turned back at the Indian border, 600 miles away from Kathmandu, doesn't bear considering.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The transfer took a full day, which left no time to transfer my Nepali visa. The next day, they only dealt with extensions, and I was instructed to return on the Sunday. Yet another day of waiting in Kathmandu, where I'd picked up my second grotty cold on consecutive visits to the place, and spent my days doing nothing except shopping, lying on my bed watching cricket highlights, and forgetting to eat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Most people at the Nepali Immigration Office were friendly and helpful, except for another example of the type <i>officialus grumpus</i>. I went first to room 307, explained my predicament, filled out the forms, and was told to go down to room 206 for a 10-rupee stamp. There he was, marking the time until the next official tiffin break. I waited until he'd finished with a Chinese girl in front of me, and asked him for a ten-rupee stamp. He grabbed my passport and forms from me and starting pawing through them, while answering another call on his mobile. I'm not a violent person, but the raw frustration this official created was enough to have my hands clenching into fists. He didn't listen, though I must have told him ten times that I only needed a ten-rupee stamp. He told me to go to room 203 and complete the form which he already had in his hands. He spent an age looking at my Iranian visa, which did make me raise my voice and ask if he spoke Farsi. He didn't once acknowledge my question about the stamp. The only thing that stopped me grabbing my paperwork back was the worry that I'd damage it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Thankfully, the helpful folk at the admin section sent a henchman back down with me, a towering giant of a figure who grabbed the man in room 206 by the throat and lifted him off his feet, rattling his teeth until he apologised and agreed to become a better, more helpful person. Well, maybe not. But my companion was a tall lad, and he somehow acquired a ten-rupee stamp. With great ceremony this was affixed to my form.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Next, room 204 (immigration), room 104 (Cashier), room 105 (the Director), back to room 307, room 204 again and then the fifth trip up to room 307, where it was complete. I was free!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">All of which means that I now have a timetable and an itinerary, which I've done quite well at avoiding so far. I have tickets booked from Delhi to Milan on the fifth of August, and I have to be back in the UK between the twenty-first of August and the fourth of September.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">It would be easy to carry on, hop a plane to Bangkok and keep riding south, but as well as wanting this to be a cycling journey, I fear that I would start to take flying for granted. And I can do without the hassle of searching for cheap flights and wading through the various airlines' policies on carrying bikes. Riding my bike is simple. If I have changed in any way on this journey, it's that I don't think of this trip as a one-ff any more. I can come back, avoid cul-de-sacs such as India and Nepal, and just ride my bike. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;">* Tedious detail #1: you have to have at least 60 days between your Indian visas. However, I'd only been gone from India a month, and the visa is valid from the date of issue, so technically they were entitled to deny me. However, I wasn't intending to return to India until the 60 days had elapsed, I simply wanted to get my visa while I was in Kathmandu to save me a return trip and to give me time to get into the mountains before the monsoons hit.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;">**Tedious detail #2: I couldn't simply go and collect the bike myself, as I had left the Annapurna Conservation Area, and I would have had to stump up another 2000 rupees (fifteen quid) for another permit, as well as paying the jeep fare twice.</span></span></div>
</div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-55433290930101443152012-06-04T22:03:00.000-07:002012-06-04T22:22:06.638-07:00Carry On Up Thorong La<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Over-reachers and dreamers. We'd still be living in the trees without people who dared to do more. Of course, reaching too far can also lead to you falling flat on your face.<br />
<br />
I'd read about people cycling the Annapurna Circuit, and I fancied giving it a try myself, on the same bike with which I'd ridden to Nepal. I knew that the trail would be very rough and rocky in places and I expected that I'd have to carry my bike for about a quarter of the time.<br />
<br />
I made minimal changes to the bike. I took off my clipless pedals, fitted some flat pedals and bought some walking shoes. <br />
<br />
I could have bought some knobbly tyres, or taken off my mudguards and racks to save weight. I could also have bought a big rucksack to let me carry my kit on my back and fangled a way of strapping my bike to it for the portage sections. I did none of these things.<br />
<br />
I suppose the reactions of other people who'd trekked the route should have given me a hint. Non-cyclists were very enthusiastic and said I'd be fine apart from a few places, including the highest and toughest day where I'd have to carry the bike from Thorong Phedi at 4450 metres ASL to Thorong La itself, at 5416 metres ASL. They also told me there was a road a lot of the way round. Cyclists, on the other hand, tended to wince and say things like "travel as light as you can" or, less reassuringly, "I wouldn't".<br />
<br />
In the end, my circuit involved six different forms of transport, and may yet include a seventh. But in the end, it was simply such a wonderful place to be, surrounded by jungles and towering cliffs which gave way to vast mountains where eagles swooped and yaks grazed, breathing the crisp air in remote villages which were, in some ways, remarkably unspoilt by tourism and the trappings of modernity, that it hadn't really mattered how I'd got there.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284866062/" title="Chame by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Chame" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7096/7284866062_59c9d03954_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div>
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Day 1 -17/05/2012.</b> Pokhara, Damauli, Dumre, Besisahar - 72.36 miles, 11.95 mph average, 37.5 mph max.</h3>
<br />
Bright was the day and high was my heart when I left Pokhara. I was awake early and after two breakfasts I left Pokhara with the clearest views yet of the white mountains above the lake, Macchapuchra (or, more prosaically, Fishtail for its slightly curved profile) being particularly prominent. <br />
<br />
The strike was still ongoing. In the guest house the previous night an Indian couple had been panicking about getting to the airport the next day, to the point where the husband was screaming down the phone at some poor policeman and demanding a police escort through the baying hordes. The airport is about a half hour walk away, with luggage. If I'd have been around I'd have offered to take their luggage to the airport by bike for 1000 rupees while he and his wife walked.<br />
<br />
I didn't see any roadblocks on the gentle downhill to Damauli, but the highway was packed with people, especially children, playing football, cricket or skipping games, rolling hoops, or just running about. It was quite charming, except for when the kids started deliberately blocking my path and demanding money, and the less said about the solitary stone-chucker, the better. <br />
<br />
At Dumre I turned off the Pokhara-Kathmandu highway, and along the valley of the Marsyangdi river. At this point it was a wide channel surrounded by farmland, though the current was strong and the water was a rich blue, carrying sediment straight off the glaciers which were melting in the early summer heat. I'd be following this river for a long time, and see it change character from the wide farmlands which characterised its banks between Dumre and Besishahar. I had a half hour break beneath the spreading branches of a tree which marked the edge of a fallow field. <br />
<br />
No tourists stop along here. They all take a bus to Besishahar. Everyone stared at me in the villages when I stopped for water, an experience which I have never become accustomed to, even in India. Still, I was pleased to be on a bike - even if the buses had been running, the bus journey would have taken six sweaty hours, which is only an hour quicker than my ride from Pokhara. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 2 - 18/05/2012. Besishahar, Bhulbhule, Ngadi, Syanje - 15.18 miles, 4.67 mph average, 15.8 mph max</h3>
<br />
That hotel in Besishahar was weird. The husband spoke good English and his wife didn't, but it was always her who took my food orders, so I got fried chicken without the promised chips instead of roast chicken, then in the morning I got toast instead of porridge. I should have ordered toast and porridge. <br />
<br />
After breakfast, second order of the day was to have my card stamped at the TIMS office. There are police checkposts marking the route, to ensure that only tourists who've bought the permits enter, and to ensure that they stay on their route. It costs 3700 rupees for the permits to go around the Annapurna Circuit (there are two bits of paper, ACAP and TIMS: ACAP is the authority issuing permission to enter protected areas of Nepal, and TIMS is the Trekker Information Management System to keep track of tourists for their own safety and to regulate entries into the protected area). At nearly thirty quid, that is expensive, unless compared to the £300 they charge to visit Upper Mustang, a closed and mysterious place which I glimpsed later in the trail. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284239344/" title="the "road" to Chamje by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the "road" to Chamje" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8001/7284239344_9eac44db74_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div>
<br />
The road was rough. It's just a track blasted out of the bedrock, and there were times I had to push uphill, as I simply couldn't get any purchase on the loose rocks. The bedrock jutted out of the road in many places, and even the occasional jeeps struggled on those sections. I did nip over to the trekking route for a bit after Bhulbhule, and sat for a while next to one of the many waterfalls (in the UK these would each be tourist attractions in their own right with names like the Dragon's Breath, but in the same way that nobody would bother naming the pebbles on a beach, the waterfalls remain nameless), and rode along a gentle grassy track for a bit. I realised my mistake when I had to shoulder my bike for some rocky sections, and I gave serious thought to stopping at 9.30 am. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284667268/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="waterfall after Bhulbhule by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="waterfall after Bhulbhule" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7224/7284667268_7cf5bed1c1_z.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the waterfall near Bhulbhule (and my mascot)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
The pushy guy at the hotel where I had a pancake told me that I could cross back to the road at the other end of the village. It did involve lofting my bike up a five foot gap at either end of an unfinished bridge, and pushing up the steep road at the other side. And then falling off. I hit a loose stone on the slight descent and lost my front wheel. A couple of Nepalis dashed up to check I was OK, which I was, except for some scuffs on my right knee and a few bruises. I washed my knee clean in the waterfall and plodded on, perhaps with a little more caution. I hadn't been going quickly anyway, and with the mix of pushing uphill and careful descending, a cheery local was nearly matching my pace on foot. <br />
<br />
I was knackered when I stopped, even though it was only 1 o'clock in the afternoon. I felt quite down - I was still in the low jungles, it was still hot, and the roughness of the trail and the road had been getting me down. I had a nap.<br />
<br />
My hotel was an arrangement of wooden boards and a large wasp was building a nest against one wall of my room. I didn't bother him and he didn't bother me. There was nothing to do except read and watch the storm which built up in the later afternoon and roared down the gorge, but with my afternoon nap I didn't get to sleep until after one in the morning. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 3 - 19/05/2012. From Syanje, Jagat, Chamje - not very far at all. </h3>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284409746/" title="my bike above Chamje by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="my bike above Chamje" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7080/7284409746_7ed212a7f2_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div>
<br />
Are Spaniards naturally pessimistic, or is it just Castillians? <br />
<br />
I'd started early and enjoyed the clean air and the way the sunlight gilded the distant peaks. I stopped for a good-but-expensive apple pie which was freshly made while I waited. This gave the herd of donkeys with which I'd been playing leapfrog all morning another opportunity to catch up. Without many roads, most things are still hauled up to Manang District by donkey or porter, which goes some way towards explaining the prices of luxury items such as beer and chocolate. The lines of porters and donkeys give a medieval feel to the remote places, but there was often a modern twist; one porter was carrying an electrical generator on his back, another a television. Another had cages full of chickens. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284347606/" title="porter in Danakyu by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="porter in Danakyu" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7237/7284347606_60ee7ebc40_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div>
<br />
I arrived in Chamje at about 11 o'clock and decided not to stop. My cycling map/guide was ten years out of date, so it hadn't mentioned the road up the valley, but this was where the road ended, and it said that the next section to Tal was 90% carrying. I shouldered the bike and was about to start descending the steep, rocky track when the Spaniards came and stole my mojo. <br />
<br />
I stood aside for them to come up the track; one said "good luck" and the next shook his head. "Where are you going?! 70% of the trail is like that!"<br />
<br />
I shrugged, smiled and waited for them to pass. <br />
<br />
Then I stopped. They knew what they were talking about, right? Maybe it was impossible. <br />
<br />
I let the donkeys overtake me, then returned to the village to catch up with the Spaniards and investigate further. <br />
<br />
Turns out, they'd come from the Manaslu trek rather than around Annapurna, so they had only seen the next ten or twelve kilometres of my route. I had a drink and, even though my confidence, already fragile from the amount of pushing so far and the tumble the previous day, was at its lowest, I hoiked the bike back onto my shoulder and told them I was at least going to try. The miserable sod said "you'll remember me when you have to carry your bike back in three hours' time".<br />
<br />
I always find walking downhill tougher than uphill, as the muscles are very different to those used going uphill, which are similar to the much-exercised muscles I use when cycling. I was also trying to find a comfortable position for my bike, while keeping a hand free to hold onto rocks and keep my balance. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284661374/" title="donkeys crossing a bridge between Chamje and Tal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="donkeys crossing a bridge between Chamje and Tal" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8143/7284661374_e0e4f8f319_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
I walked the bike over the footbridge, which swayed alarmingly under the weight of the troop of donkeys crossing ahead of me. The trail didn't improve at the other side, and with the extra weight on my back my knees were reminding me why I'd given up a lacklustre football career. My shoulder was already bruised from the weight of the bike, I was struggling to lift it onto my back and each time I lowered the bike I came closer to dropping it. I had serious doubts that my knees would take ten more kilometres of that, or even one more. I sat on a rock and finished my juice. Even with reassurances from my guidebook and other trekkers that the route improved, it would be a weary way to Tal. Watching the donkeys wind their way between the rocks, I realised why the wheel wasn't invented in Nepal. <br />
<br />
Back to Chamje, then, where I planned to leave my bike and walk the rest of the route. I'd had enough glimpses of the peaks to assure me that I'd enjoy it, and it didn't matter how I got up there; being there was what I wanted, with or without the bike. For the first time since I'd left Darlo, the bike felt like a burden.<br />
<br />
An Irish lass came past while I was on my rock. I told her with a wry smile that this wasn't cycling country so I was just going to walk on. She told me that she'd seen me riding up when she was on the bus from Pokhara, and she was impressed with how far I'd come. I always did like the Irish more than the Spanish. <br />
<br />
The lovely owner of Tibet Lhasha Hotel was quite happy for me to leave my bike and collect it from her in a week and a half. I spent the rest of the day reading, and writing, and watching the other travellers come and go. I could have started walking that day, but I preferred to mark the end of the cycling with a full stop rather than a comma. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 4 - 20/05/2012. Chamje, Tal, Danakyu</h3>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284246000/" title="morning in the mountains by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="morning in the mountains" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7073/7284246000_7609a1fc0a_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
Big landscape today. I was walking up a high, craggy canyon. There were some fabulous views with the river and the jungle in the foreground, rocky outcrops in the middle distance and the peaks around Manaslu murky behind the clouds. <br />
<br />
The walk along the valley and the "long hot steep climb" to Tal wasn't as tough as I'd expected. It was certainly easier without the bike, and I was chatting to a couple of Nepali girls who were walking back to their home in Lower Pisang. Typical of Nepalis, they were walking in ordinary clothes and flip flops, quite a contrast to the fully kitted-out tourist trekkers. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284385044/" title="waterfall on the road by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="waterfall on the road" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8147/7284385044_82fd759ae8_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div>
<br />
We all had to wait after Tal while the new road was being blasted out of the rock. The explosions echoed down the canyon and when we started walking again there was debris all over the trail - not just rubble, but huge lumps of pale rock which had been projected across the river. The new road is about a month from completion, and I commented to the Nepali girls that it would make their lives much easier, as they'd be able to travel home in half a day by jeep or motorbike, instead of having to trudge for two days along a rough trail. I imagine it will also change the nature of the Manang district, and if I ever do return I'll enjoy playing the old lag and telling everybody "Aye, 'tweren't like this back in my day, before they built that road".<br />
<br />
I stopped in the early afternoon and spent the afternoon and evening chatting with a Sherpa who was guiding a Korean around the trail and who had some great stories of climbing the summits with groups of, erm, varying abilities. Sonam has been to the summit of seventeen of Nepal's highest peaks, so this must have been really easy for him, especially at the pace his Korean charge was making. I saw Thijs passing by, whom I'd met at breakfast in Chamje, so I waved him into the hotel and tried to get a discount off the room for bringing the owner more trade. The owner wasn't having it. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 5 - 21/05/2012. Danakyu, Latamarang, Chame, Upper Pisang</h3>
<br />
Peakspotting with Thijs. The map I had wasn't detailed enough to follow the trail, and the trail was so easy to follow that Thijs and I boggled at the number of people who had guides. However, the map did help us to identify the peaks which came in and out of view throughout the day. Manaslu (the eighth highest mountain in the world) was reflecting the bright sun back at us from its icy slopes first thing in the morning, and Annapurna II hoved into view as we climbed. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284644202/" title="me in Latamarang by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="me in Latamarang" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7072/7284644202_1a82effc7c_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
I was disappointed with the naming of the mountains. Come on, Annapurna I, Annapurna II, III and IV? They could at least give them names such as Annapurna Eagle's Lair, or Annapurna-Where-Death-Waits; Annapurna I is reputedly the world's most dangerous mountain, and the tenth highest in the world. Thijs agreed that the features on the trail needed more evocative names, so we started calling sections of trail the Diamond Path for its sparkly mineral deposits, or the Path of Thyme for the abundance of the herb, and Mount Doom for one dramatic, sheer escarpment at a bend in the river. When he gives up his medical studies for a career as a Dark Lord, Thijs is going to build his evil lair at the top of Mount Doom. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284560244/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Mount Doom by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Mount Doom" height="314" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7079/7284560244_835d3531d0_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Doom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Thijs was good company, and as our pace was similar we walked the rest of the trail together. It was a big advantage of walking over cycling, that I had more of an opportunity to walk and chat with other tourists. His conversation did revolve around the state of his bowels, his month-long bout of diarrhoea, and the worsening state of his stools (he's a medical student, and capable of going into painful detail about the subject), but long bike rides with my mate Martin have inured me to this sort of thing. <br />
<br />
The other topic of conversation was the increasing expense of food. We thought it was fair enough, for a bottle of mineral water to be seven or eight times the lowland price when it would have been brought up there by porter or donkey, even if we weren't prepared to pay it, but in Yak Kharka a single chapati was 170 rupees. For one chapati! We'd been walking amongst wheat fields less than a mile back, so it wasn't as if the ingredients were terribly exotic. In Pokhara a chapati is fifteen rupees, in the expensive places, so that's more than a 1000% mark-up. Dhal bhat (rice, lentil soup and potato curry), which I'd been eating for 70 rupees in western Nepal, was rising above 400 rupees. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284585754/" title="scary bridge near Braga by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="scary bridge near Braga" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7090/7284585754_0a7019b295_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
While failing to find the cheapest thing on the menu in Yak Kharka, we met Zita and Arpi, <a href="http://360fokbringa.hu/en/">a Hungarian couple who are honeymooning around the world on recumbent bicycles</a>, although they weren't foolhardy enough to attempt the Annapurna Circuit on their steeds.<br />
<br />
We walked with them to Upper Pisang and stayed at the Yak and Yeti Hotel, or the Nepali version of Fawlty Towers. An incredibly drunk man invited us in and we agreed rates. Since Thijs and I were eating meals there, we had our room free, but since Zita and Arpi had stoves and their own food they paid for their room, with the understanding that they could cook their own meals. We sat and talked around the wood burner, with Zita and Arpi's pans bubbling on top of it, but the atmosphere was hardly comfortable, as the matriarch of the family insisted on supervising the feeding of fuel into the fire, not letting Thijs put more than a little wood in a time. It's not as though wood is a scarce resource - it's one thing they certainly don't have to have carried in. The drunk son became more drunk, developing a twitch and insisting on talking to us in pidgin German: "Scheisse! Guten tag!" The father turned up and grumped about and truly soured the atmosphere in Basil Fawlty style by telling Zita and Arpi that they couldn't stay if they weren't paying for food. "This is no way to run a business," he told them, and the irony obviously escaped him. Thijs and I said that we'd just go to a different hotel if he wanted to move the goalposts, and since we owed him money this shut him up, even if it didn't mollify him. Later on he came back in and sat watching Indian soaps on the TV, which we'd hoped to use to watch a movie, and threatened to clout his increasingly incoherent son around the lughole. We were waiting for him to start arguing about money again, which he didn't, and in the morning he seemed happy when he had his money, although he did wake us all up by marching up and down the corridor while bawling into his mobile at the top of his voice. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
Day 6 - 22/05/2012. Upper Pisang, Lower Pisang, Humde, Mugje, Braga, Manang</h3>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284773760/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Annapurna II from Upper Pisang by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Annapurna II from Upper Pisang" height="160" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7222/7284773760_dddbee7a00_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Annapurna II</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
The sheer white bulk of Annapurna II to the south greeted us on waking. Zita and Arpi were taking the high trekking route to Manang, but Thijs and I decided to take the low road. <br />
<br />
We were past the section marked on the map as "peaceful forest" (other features of interest on the map were "apple orchards" and "fields of marijuana" - we missed the apple trees, but there were acres of marijuana), but the trees seemed no more warlike than previously, as we wound our way through the pines which dominated these upland slopes, and up the broadening valley. The enclosing canyon walls had opened up, high peaks now touched every horizon, and there was space for an airport at the next village, Humde. Not many flights arrive or depart here, but it's an important connection with the world outside, like the occasional helicopters which passed by. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7284332974/" title="Marijuana plant on the Annapurna trail by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Marijuana plant on the Annapurna trail" height="375" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7083/7284332974_29d7562648.jpg" width="500" /></a>
</div>
<br />
We also met Judy and Merv, a couple of Aussies who were here as part of their retirement to sail around the world. Obviously, Nepal is very landlocked, but the ship they've bought is named the Thorong La, and they felt they had to take a break from fitting out their vessel to come and do the trek. As they were from Sydney and Newcastle, I told them they had to visit north east England, especially Newcastle-upon-Tyne and the Dorman Museum in Middlesbrough, as the Sydney Harbour Bridge was constructed by Dorman Long, and modelled upon the Tyne Bridge. We went on to have a fine discussion about Victorian engineering. It's strange where conversations lead you. <br />
<br />
Thijs and I arrived in Manang before 1 o'clock, and stayed at the Marsyangdi Hotel, which was the cheapest we could find, where the food was good, where the restaurant looked out to Annapurna III and Gangapurna, and where this kid came to stand next to us and stare while we were eating. Disturbingly, he only appeared at night.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIijKfeW-9xjLOfGmjYWaG4ztBDVw3dlRzfGM6AwRLa049NHmP8-VBItxBRkUBzpyV7PUn61GwtW3K07KCPNiaOs8dZlwB7YaX3kgaXDcjdXBXQr1D8EBRr_95Lkf7-wv4rz4wko6IVg/s1600/DSC05417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIijKfeW-9xjLOfGmjYWaG4ztBDVw3dlRzfGM6AwRLa049NHmP8-VBItxBRkUBzpyV7PUn61GwtW3K07KCPNiaOs8dZlwB7YaX3kgaXDcjdXBXQr1D8EBRr_95Lkf7-wv4rz4wko6IVg/s400/DSC05417.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">prayer wheels in Manang</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Manang wasn't what I'd expected. In my head it was either a medieval arrangement of temples and traditional houses clinging to its mountainside, or a tourist trap with lots of hotels and stalls selling necklaces and yak dollies and other tourist tat. It sat somewhere between the two, both bigger and smaller than I'd expected, part modern, part traditional. At the hotel the family spent much of the day tending their cottage garden, crops and herbs which they'd trade with fellow villagers in a way that's changed little for centuries. However, there are also hotels and restaurants selling international food (I didn't try the moussaka - they said they had no meat, and I don't know what they'd be using as an aubergine substitute), but most of them were converted houses spread along the winding front street, rather than purpose-built modern buildings. There was also a cinema with two screens; it wasn't one of your multiplexes, but it was one of the best cinemas I've been in. The 200 rupee entry fee including popcorn and fruit tea, the interior was dark with rows of wooden boards covered in yak fur, the walls were decorated with English football banners, and heating was provided by a wood stove in the middle of the floor. They were showing a terrifying selection of mountaineering disaster movies and tales of survival against brutal odds: 127 Hours, Touching the Void, Alive, Into Thin Air, Seven Years in Tibet. I went twice, and experienced a moment of dislocation when I came out of Seven Years in Tibet to be surrounded by mountains and lines of prayer wheels, and three guys in front of the cinema trying to shoe a pony in a scene which seemed to be translated straight from the screen.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285662978/" title="shoeing a pony outside the cinema in Manang by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="shoeing a pony outside the cinema in Manang" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7218/7285662978_c6a1a39236_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
</div>
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 6 - 23/05/2012. Acclimatisation day in Manang</h3>
<br />
A lot of our fellow trekkers took time on this day to go to higher altitudes, to aid acclimatisation higher up. Manang is over 3500 metres, and the pass is 2000 metres higher, so the plan makes sense. A popular trip is up to the nearby monastery to meet the 100 Rupee Necklace Guru, but I couldn't be bothered. A lie-in until seven o'clock and a leisurely breakfast. I hadn't been experiencing any problems with the altitude so far, except for a natural shortness of breath. Things were bound to get more interesting higher up, though. <br />
<br />
After a wander round town and to the post office, where they didn't sell postcards, otherwise I'd have sent a couple back - 25 rupees (17 pence) for a postcard with a stamp from the midst of the Himalayas seemed a pretty good deal to me, Thijs was keen to have a closer look at some cave houses which had been carved out of the rock wall at the edge of the valley. It was quite a scramble up, and the bugger took a video of me struggling to keep my footing on the loose scree and gravel. That won't be making the light of day. Going down was much more fun, a matter of sledging and surfing on the debris. I felt as though I'd taken half the hillside down with me, and we speculated that the inhabitants must have had ladders to go home. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285673358/" title="Thijs at Gangapurna Lake by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Thijs at Gangapurna Lake" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8151/7285673358_2400237343.jpg" width="500" /></a>
</div>
<br />
On the way back we met Arpi and Zita again, who had taken two days to walk the distance we'd covered in half a day. It's not a race, of course, and they'd spent an extra night at one of the medieval mountainside villages, coincidentally at a hotel owned by the brother-in-law of the Yak and Yeti hotel in Upper Pisang. They said he did a fine impression of His Grumpiness. <br />
<br />
As it was Arpi's birthday, we went off to the cinema and spent the evening playing card games which I dredged from my memory. Everyone took to Knock-Out Whist, but Chase the Ace was not so much fun without a little bit of gambling being involved. <br />
<br />
That was the evening we hit the rakshi, a rice wine brewed locally, in an old boot by the taste of it. I did most of the drinking; since Thijs refused to take more than a sip and Zita wasn't that keen either, I drank both of theirs. It didn't taste much better even after the third glass, and attempts to mix it with Sprite and Coke weren't entirely successful. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 7 - 24/05/2012. Manang, Gunsang, Yak Kharka, Thorung Phedi</h3>
<br />
This was the first day when things began to feel very remote. We left behind the Marsyangdi River and climbed, firstly alongside the Thorung River, then up the Kone River, which rises in the glaciers to either side of the pass itself. <br />
<br />
The lack of oxygen at this altitude started making itself felt. I kept to a steady plod uphill, and called for regular breaks to rest my heavy legs. I had thought of stopping at Ledar (4100 metres and 60% oxygen compared to sea level), rather than ascending a full 1000 metres in a day to Thorung Base Camp, but we were there not long after ten in the morning, and in contrast to other days, the clouds weren't drawing in to cover the peaks. There were clear views in all directions, so I thought "sod it" and carried on. <br />
<br />
The first herd of yaks came shortly afterwards. A calf approached us nervously while we were resting next to the track, came tentatively closer and then ran towards its mother just over the crest. She rumbled threateningly us when we passed the family; there are plenty of stories of aggressive yaks pushing trekkers off the trails, which made us act as circumspectly as possible. Maybe they'd heard about my yak meat craving. I'd asked three times for a yak burger, or yak curry, and each time I'd been told that it wasn't available. "No dinner here," the yaks' attitude seemed to say. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285650952/" title="yak near Ledar by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="yak near Ledar" height="375" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7098/7285650952_6082d7c0ec.jpg" width="500" /></a>
</div>
<br />
Later, an eagle came soaring up the valley, only ten metres away, tacking down the valley into the wind and totally disinterested in our presence. We saw several more that day, circling around the crags high above. Occasionally these uplands reminded me of the hills of home, as the alchemy of altitude and latitude made for a similar climate to Scotland or the Pennines, familiar buzzards and swallows and sparrows and cuckoos calling from amongst Scots pines and scrubby bushes. I suppose the yaks could pass for highland cattle at a careless glimpse, but a closer look at the unfamiliar bird species, Bonelli's Eagle especially, reminded me that I wasn't in the UK, and surrounded as I was by some of the world's tallest mountains, I was passing through a landscape unlike nothing I'd seen before. <br />
<br />
As well as the flora and fauna, the temperature made me feel more comfortable than the heat of the plains. The sun was bright and intense, but the air was cool. I never felt especially cold, despite travelling very light. My lightweight set-up (I had a pair of trousers, two pairs of socks, two short sleeved tops, a fleece, a rainjacket, gloves, a pair each of arm and leg warmers, a couple of buffs and a sleeping bag liner crammed into a tiny bag along with my diary, maps and toiletries) drew a few comments, but I was amazed in turn by how much some people seemed to think they required, not to mention the number of people who had porters to carry... what? I would have boiled if I'd worn a downjacket, since there was very little standing around, and a sleeping bag was excess weight when every hotel could provide extra blankets. The compass I carried felt a bit unnecessary, and one soldier asked if I was Israeli army, since apparently only the Israeli army carries compasses, but I'd hate to head into the unknown without one. Apart from Zita and Arpi carrying their own food, I didn't get to the bottom of why everyone else had so much more kit. Mind you, their bags were doubtless more comfortable than mine, which is only supposed to be used for carrying light things over small distances and tended to dig into my shoulders, but it was less uncomfortable than I'd feared. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285648468/" title="bridge on the way to Thorong phedi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="bridge on the way to Thorong phedi" height="375" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7212/7285648468_24cacd8c70.jpg" width="500" /></a>
</div>
<br />
A trio of Czechs and Slovaks at Thorung Phedi were amongst those who made the comments. I asked if they'd felt they'd needed extra climbing practice, as we'd watched them bypass the modern suspension bridge in favour of a rickety wooden affair at the bottom of the steep-sided valley which added a hundred metres or so of extra climbing up a stony trail. We did try waving to them, but they ignored us. Honestly, they'll let anyone on this trail. I bet they didn't have a compass.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285643190/" title="landslide area near Thorong Phedi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="landslide area near Thorong Phedi" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7225/7285643190_cf8e0b67e6.jpg" width="375" /></a>
</div>
<br />
Thorung Phedi was starting to feel a little cool, especially out of the sun. As night fell we were inside, supping on pasta and cheese, but not beer at those prices (450 rupees a bottle). More games of Knock-Out Whist with a Mexican and a Lincolnshire lass who said it reminded her of caravanning at Humberston Fitties with her gran. We also had an audience, a mongoose catching moths at the window.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285638656/" title="sunset over Annapurna III from Thorong Phedi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="sunset over Annapurna III from Thorong Phedi" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8026/7285638656_765f28ed19.jpg" width="500" /></a>
</div>
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 8 - 25/05/2012. Thorung Phedi, High Camp, Thorung La, Muktinath, Jomsom</h3>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkwhQQZ8Sq7QRPAT2KvMHNKML5xenKy3uBymTw2Xi9k4wrlKVPQCJfcGb1bc3X74DcliKdj6ZTz5LCTPM1f2C74CzwiBh11jwTiiij27LtpEVpt8LSuWHY901LRsWHliHiWJkPGJmq3Q/s1600/DSC05493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkwhQQZ8Sq7QRPAT2KvMHNKML5xenKy3uBymTw2Xi9k4wrlKVPQCJfcGb1bc3X74DcliKdj6ZTz5LCTPM1f2C74CzwiBh11jwTiiij27LtpEVpt8LSuWHY901LRsWHliHiWJkPGJmq3Q/s400/DSC05493.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the steep path to High Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Up at 4.15. This still wasn't as early as others, most of whom we'd caught up before we reached High Camp. I thought it'd be a bit daft to set off up a steep trail in darkness, and I felt we had the right timing, as we caught the sunrise touching Annapurna III behind us as we climbed. It was, however, a tough trail on which I set a careful pace and had to stop regularly to catch my breath. It's only about a kilometre, but the distance is less significant than the 400 metres of ascending. We were at High Camp for a proper breakfast after about an hour, and Thijs talked me into going up the nearby summit. I was pleased that he had, as it offered panoramic views of the nearby peaks and the first rays of dawn creeping over the crags. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285939784/" title="Thorong La High Camp panorama by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Thorong La High Camp panorama" height="209" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8002/7285939784_35efd43898_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
I started to experience the first signs of altitude sickness: a growing headache and nausea, but it was easier to go on and over than to go back. Upwards to the pass and above the snowline, into a bare landscape of snow and rocks and ice and a few stubborn tufts of grass. Nothing else grew there, and the only other sign of life was a lone moorland bird, quite like a large curlew. Only the wind and the icy stream moved, and as we approached the pass we left the water behind. Even the regular passage of locals on their way between villages ceased. Nobody comes here by accident, and few do it casually. <br />
<br />
Thorung La itself was a blaze of coloured flags and alive with trekkers. This seemed strange, as it was the low season, and Thijs and I had both commented on how few other trekkers we'd seen. We were both pleased about that, and I can't imagine that seeing it under thick snow makes it so much more beautiful that it's worth sharing the route with a few hundred other walkers. The day we crossed the path was as clear and perfect as we could have wished for. There were about twenty other people at the top, resting and taking photos of each other at the famous sign, of which there are probably a million photos out there, but only one has me in it. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285804544/" title="me at Thorong La by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="me at Thorong La" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8141/7285804544_6be6189603_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
When Thijs took the photo he said "Yeah, that's a good expression - smug." As if to prove that pride really does come before a fall, almost my first step on the descent was to miss my footing on a loose stone and twist my knee. Not badly enough that I couldn't walk, thankfully, but I had to find my way very gingerly down the trail, which was a calf-crunching, knee-wrenching, foot-wrecking horror. It was steep, it was stony, then it turned even more steep and stony. The hazy view of the distant peaks behind Mustang remained an unchanging, uninspiring tableau. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7286090260/" title="descending Thorong La to Mustang by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="descending Thorong La to Mustang" height="226" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7104/7286090260_a7f6319bc6_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
Three uncomfortable hours later we finally reached a point where we no longer descending. Those four or five steps uphill to the hotel felt like floating. When we were half an hour from the bottom - and therefore the pass was two and a half hours behind us at a downhill pace - we passed a lunatic going up the other way. He was already taking duck steps and looked as though his shoes were filled with lead. Good luck, mate. <br />
<br />
As with many passes, there was a sharp sense of transition between the Manang and Mustang valleys, or at least lower Mustang. We arrived at Muktinath, which is connected to Pokhara by a jeepable road and is a pilgrimage site for Hindus, and it was busy, Indian tourists wandering about in jeeps, a Nepali motorbike gang hanging around the gates, souvenir stalls and hotels and the world's most preposterously expensive internet cafe: 600 rupees an hour. Quite a contrast to remote Manang, and probably a sign of things to come when they complete the road. <br />
<br />
I wasn't keen to hang around. I had to get back to Pokhara and then go to retrieve my bike, then on to the British Consulate in Kathmandu to have a word about a problem with my passport. <br />
<br />
Walking was going to take another week. Public transport was the fastest option, or public-ish. The jeep for tourists was a couple of hours away and rather expensive, but there was a handy truck heading for Jomsom, and we blagged a lift in the back of it, once the cement had been empties from it. It would have been much better if one of the Nepali cement shovellers hadn't spent the entire journey singing along to his mobile phone. I asked if he was a professional singer, and told him that he could make money out of that voice. I'd have paid him to shut up. With the rough road and lack of suspension, it was the bumpiest journey of my life...up to that point. <br />
<br />
Thijs went along to the hospital in Jomsom to ask a doctor about his bowel issues. However, the doctor said it would require a rectal probe, which Thijs wasn't enthusiastic about getting in that hospital, which reminded me of the 1940s-constructed primary school I'd attended. We went off to find a hotel instead, which was easy enough in Jomsom, an even bigger town than Muktinath but with a much more pleasant atmosphere. We stayed at the marvellously-named Dancing Yak, and I finally got myself a yak burger. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285814924/" title="yak burger in Jomsom! by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="yak burger in Jomsom!" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7245/7285814924_7800383213_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Day 9 - 26/05/2012. Jomsom, Ghasa, Beni, Pokhara. </h3>
<br />
Choices, choices. Jomsom has an airport, with daily flights to Pokhara on propeller planes offering beautiful mountain views and an arrival in Pokhara within an hour or two. However, I have an objection to flying, and to paying $94 when there's a cheaper alternative. There was also the slight issue of the plane crash a week and a half previously; fifteen people had died, three are still in hospital, and the wreck of the flight was still embedded in the mountainside, in full view from the airport. It would probably be tasteless to ask if they did fly-pasts. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285812782/" title="our ride from Jomsom by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="our ride from Jomsom" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7238/7285812782_5754e0ca82_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<br />
The alternative began with a bus to Ghasa. Though it didn't feel so, it was the most pleasant part of the journey. OK, we were behind the back axle and felt every bump, the bus was lined with speakers and the music of choice was a special compilation for the journey, The Worst Music in the World, with every country represented. Thijs came over all patriotic when the Venga Boys came on, but my brain had thankfully shut down by then. It was a relief to have to get out and walk when we came to a bridge which wouldn't bear the weight of the bus and passengers (there were other bridges where I would have volunteered to get out), and another crossing without a bridge, where we all forded the river with our possessions and alighted another bus. All of the Nepalis took this as a matter of course, and to us it was all part of the adventure, even when the driver departed from the road and began making up his own route along the monsoon riverbed. Seeing a few other tourists along that dusty valley, I was relieved that I hadn't walked, although sitting at the back of the bus and looking forward as the bus tackled the mountain switchbacks reminded me intensely of the last scenes of the Italian Job, and we all know how that ended. <br />
<br />
Ghasa came sooner than I expected, and I'd held off travel sickness for the first leg. There wasn't much of a break before we climbed aboard our second form of transport of the day, the jeep to Beni. Again, we were at the back, and this proved to be the bumpiest, least comfortable journey of my life. I spent the entire journey bouncing up and smacking my arse off the seat, closing my eyes when we went particularly close to the unbarriered edge high above the torrent of the Kali Gandaki River on the wet, rocky road, and trying not to throw up (travel sickness, rather than fear). It would have been more bearable if the damn jeep hadn't broken down for three hours when the drivebelt needed replacing. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285817490/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="our chariot from Ghasa to Beni by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="our chariot from Ghasa to Beni" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7081/7285817490_e112af26ea_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">got a drivebelt up there, mate?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
When we eventually arrived in Beni, the last bus to Pokhara had long gone, and the taxi drivers were quoting absurd prices for the 45 miles to Pokhara. I was ready to give up and grab a hotel, but while I was waiting for my head to stop spinning and batting off the juvenile beggars, Thijs was asking some of our fellow inmates from the jeep if they were heading to Pokhara. <br />
<br />
So we ended up, six of us in an early eighties hatchback: me, Thijs, the driver, a Nepali girl, a Nepali grandmother and a Buddhist nun. The grandmother took the front seat as the biggest of us (though I was trying to angle that for myself), and I still don't know by what contortions the rest of us managed to fit across the back seat. Thijs claimed that he'd been on less comfortable journeys in India, but the position of my face against the window made it difficult for me to frame a response. <br />
<br />
There was a huge storm rolling through the mountains around Pokhara. Flashes of lightning came at the rate of three or four a second, and how the rain fell. The roads were inches deep with water as the drains in Pokhara couldn't cope. I still got out of the taxi early, and walked to my guest house to let the blood in my sadly abused legs re-circulate. I collected my kit, took a room, and slept. <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
After</h3>
<br />
Well, I failed to cycle the route, but it's a journey which is better done by foot, or at least by mountain bike, and it was something of a holiday to leave the bike behind for so long, even on the descent from Thorung La. One of the things I had come away seeking was proper mountains, and the glittering peaks of Annapurna satisfied that part of my soul, for now. But like so many other places I've visited, I've left with the urge to go back, to wander the secret valleys of Upper Mustang, roam the high passes of distant Langtang, and I never did go up to Everest Base Camp. <br />
<br />
Part of the joy of travelling, however you travel, is to form your own impressions of places you visit, to find places which you'd love to re-visit, and to anticipate the pleasure of seeing places you haven't been able to see. Two months in Nepal simply isn't enough time. I'll be back. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7285945848/" title="Gangapurna from above Manang by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Gangapurna from above Manang" height="239" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7226/7285945848_422fa0abe2_z.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/sets/72157629928474656/with/7285945848/">More Photos on Flickr</a></div>
</div>
</div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-45484912300063799232012-05-16T08:11:00.001-07:002012-05-27T20:20:03.071-07:00Thunder Lightning Strike: Three Days from Kathmandu to Pokhara<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two hundred kilometres. That's two days, right? Unless it's extremely hilly, of course. I met a couple of Nepali cyclists while finding my way out of Kathmandu, and they assured me that it was flat, apart from a couple of big hills. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277603234/" title="Nepali cyclist in Kathmandu by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Nepali cyclist in Kathmandu" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7243/7277603234_5325239788_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<br />
<br />
Good job I didn't believe them. I doubt there's enough flat in the whole route to make a passable cricket square. It probably is flat for Nepal. <br />
<br />
I would have cleared it in two days, but I was still recovering from the chesty cold which plagued my time in Kathmandu. I felt increasingly spaced out as the days wound on and I found myself unable and unwilling to ride any further. <br />
<br />
Maybe I should have had an extra day in Kathmandu, but there was a strike on, which was fabulous. The road was almost deserted, and I took advantage of that. I still saw half a dozen wagons and buses which had tipped over or come off the road. It's a notoriously dangerous run - I was pleased that I hit it when it was so quiet. The strikes are incredibly disruptive to travel as the roads are blocked and most bus services are cancelled. I'm lucky to have a bike, on which I can skirt around the roadblocks, smiling and waving at the protestors, who smile and wave back. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277732866/" title="protest for the Nepali strikes by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="protest for the Nepali strikes" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7231/7277732866_68888c2e64_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
Not that I really appreciated it, but it was a beautiful route. After the climb over the lip of the bowl of the Kathmandu Valley, it followed the widening river, tending down through a valley surrounded by green hills and impromptu waterfalls flowing down the hillsides, fed by the overnight rains. The monsoons seem to be developing a little earlier this year - a day's weather follows a similar pattern, clear in the morning, clouds developing on the peaks through the day and heavy, thundery showers descending by four o'clock. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277726742/" title="the Kathmandu-Pokhara Highway by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the Kathmandu-Pokhara Highway" height="169" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7223/7277726742_6b183008d1_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
I didn't fancy riding on slick roads in those conditions so I only rode forty miles on the first day and stopped when I heard the rumbles of thunder. It was a convenient excuse to stop, which I'd wanted to anyway. <br />
<br />
I cooked some noodles in my cheap guest house, just as the rain and thunder were at their fiercest. I heard a huge crash outside, and realised that it wasn't another thunderclap. I looked outside to the highway, and there was a wagon on its side, and people were rushing out to help. I've no idea how the driver managed that, on a straight road, but it confirmed my decision to get off the road in the wet, and a few minutes later the driver was lifted out of his cab, looking shaken but unhurt. It was still there when I left in the morning. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277749166/" title="another crash on the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="another crash on the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway" height="180" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7238/7277749166_d60e886c7d_m.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277741988/" title="crash on the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="crash on the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway" height="180" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8157/7277741988_9bff11b0c2_m.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277878894/" title="bus in a ditch on the road from Kathmandu to Pokhahra by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="bus in a ditch on the road from Kathmandu to Pokhahra" height="180" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8008/7277878894_942e672b74_m.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7277759368/" title="crash off the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="crash off the Kathmandu-Pokhara highway" height="180" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7244/7277759368_18feb38d1b_m.jpg" width="240" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The road continued to follow the river valley down to Mugling, sweeping up the hillsides often enough to make me remember the "flat" description with a wry smile. The sun beat down. It was hot. I was quite bad tempered, especially after the second night where I stayed at the fourth guest house I checked, having rejected the others for reasons varying from horribly overpriced to death trap stairs. Shame I didn't realise the place where I did stay was mosquito hell. I hardly slept for scratching at the lumps which developed on my arms until they relented at dawn. <br />
<br />
I didn't notice the second big hill, or it blended too much into the up-down pattern to register as a hill. There was a five-mile climb out of Dumre followed by a delicious descent. Maybe that's the one they meant. <br />
<br />
I went on a quest for second breakfast, having started the day with coffee and porridge. I was unsuccessful. The first place I stopped, I waited twenty minutes before they had the courtesy to tell me they couldn't make two-thirds of my order, and at the second place it was thirty minutes before they brought out my alleged meal. I'd ordered a cheese and ham toastie. What they gave me was a paneer burger, which I refused to pay for. Hungry and frustrated, I left, and bought some cheese puffs and muesli bars at the next town. It was only twenty miles to Pokhara so I was happy enough to escape from the midday sun for a couple of hours and chat with a couple of Austrian cyclists heading the other way. <br />
<br />
The clouds started to form again, and serious rain to fall. This took the edge off the heat, and I thought I may as well carry on. "Soft as shite, soft as shite, soft as shite", I sang at the motorbikers who were ducking into the bus shelters. Riding through heavy rain is a great experience. I was quickly soaked to the skin and wonderfully cool, my shorts and jersey were clinging to me and still the rain fell. <br />
<br />
I found an optician's in Pokhara and bought some lens solution, my bottle having spilled in my bag the previous day. This coincided with me leaving my glasses in a guest house, and followed on from losing my wallet. There was a huge tear in the rear pocket on my shorts, and I was so out of it that I simply forgot, and my wallet probably ended up down the highway somewhere. It only had about a tenner and my Stockton Borough Council library card in it, but I was still annoyed at myself. <br />
<br />
I found a guest house near the Lakeside in Pokhara, which was even more of a mozzie-infested fleapit than the previous night's place. But by the time I'd got in and checked the room, I was too cold and shivery and tired to go anywhere else. The shower was wonderfully warm. <br />
<br />
Of course, the next morning I realised I was only a mile from the heart of the tourist district at Lakeside. I had a very welcome not-entirely-unlike-a-full-English-breakfast and found a much nicer guest house, where I slept the day away. There are times to be moving, and times to do nothing. These days in Pokhara, I've really enjoyed doing nothing. </div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-13813021690573664632012-05-09T06:56:00.001-07:002012-05-27T20:32:33.953-07:00Grumpy Cycle Touring: Across the Plains and Over a Mountain to Kathmandu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Look, it's hot. I'm sweaty and tired and thirsty, I'm going as fast as I can uphill, and now is not the time to run alongside me grinning and trying to grab my panniers. Piss off, kid."<br />
<br />
He eventually got the message. I'm not proud of snarling at a little boy, but the heat was getting to me. Not to mention the endless chorus of hallos, bye byes (for some reason, people shout "bye bye" as I go past, which I had encountered a bit in India, but it still strikes me as odd) and weird monosyllabic grunts which greet my passing. I usually smile and wave back. Usually. It's not exactly conversation, and the constant, energy-sapping heat sweated the patience out of me. Even the coolest parts of the day saw temperatures over 30 degrees, and at noon it rose above 40 degrees. <br />
<br />
The Terai was the problem. Nepal is best known for its mountains and green valleys, but the Terai is a hot, dry plain, and the only east-west road across Nepal crosses the middle of it. It may be just as well that there isn't a road cutting across the mountains, as I'd probably still be out there instead of stuffing myself with cake and bacon here in Kathmandu.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134554047/" title="bridge in Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="bridge in Nepal" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8002/7134554047_70e134c169_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988715632/" title="forest fire, Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="forest fire, Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8142/6988715632_55b037477b_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The Terai is low and hot. It's not flat, though. The Mahendra Highway goes across the country from west to east, and crosses all the rivers that cut paths down from the mountains. They're dry in this season, waiting for the monsoons, but there are still ridges to cross from valley to valley, and in the heat I wilted on the climbs. I'd stop in any shady spot I could find in the middle of the day and try to drink the water in my bottles, which warmed to the point where I could make a passable cup of coffee at noon. <br />
<br />
As I rode further east the traffic levels and population grew. The west of Nepal was under-populated and quiet, but the centre and the plains have relatively high population densities. It's still a poor region, with hardly any private cars, so people get around by tractor, bus or bicycle. <br />
<br />
The buses were the worst, as the drivers have no patience at all, and I lost track of the number of times I had to swerve off the road onto the dirt-packed shoulder to avoid a bus coming the other way and overtaking without any regard for me, driven by a swivel-eyed lunatic on wakey-wakey drugs. Any time I held my line and made the bus wait for a clear road behind me was a small victory. <br />
<br />
The cyclists presented their own problems, as well. Competitive isn't in it. I'm not without a strong competitive streak myself, but I wasn't trying to race anybody, I was simply trying to keep up a rhythm I could maintain for 70 miles, in the heat. I got so sick of Nepalis overtaking me as soon as I'd passed them, even when I gave a "Namaste" and a friendly tip of my cap. <br />
<br />
One kid saw me coming and chased off before I could pass him - fair enough, I thought. This kid was wearing a baseball cap at a gangsta angle, grey shorts of the sort I refused to wear when I was six, he was so skinny that both of his legs wouldn't have made one of my arms, and he was putting everything into it on his Indian sit-up-and-beg job. He pedalled with his heels and his toes stuck out (as nearly everyone does out here) and his saddle was so low that his knees were nearly at right angles. He was bent low over his bars with his elbows working, and overall the effect was rather like a Wallace and Gromit engine in overdrive, elbows and knees and feet flailing in every direction like broken pistons. <br />
<br />
I wasn't trying to overhaul him, but he slowed down so much that I was overtaking within a couple of hundred yards. When I got next to him I realised that this was a bloke my age, despite the outfit. He even had a little moustache. It was like racing one of the Chuckle Brothers. I nodded as I went past, but Barry Chuckle wasn't having that. Again he started pumping his joints, leaning over his bars and grinning as he passed. The same again, further up the road. <br />
<br />
I rolled my eyes and decided I'd had enough. I overtook and put on a little bit more speed, occasionally glancing back to make sure that he was still there, then I shifted up a gear and added a bit more acceleration, then a little bit more, until he was ten yards behind me, when I chucked it into the big ring and rolled away from him. I never saw him again. <br />
<br />
Not that every Nepali cyclist was as irritating. I was pleased to see lots and lots of Nepali girls out on bikes. Quite a contrast to India, where (except in the cities) the women kept to themselves. I was riding along and about twelve Nepali schoolgirls called "Hellos" and "Namastes" as they rode in the other direction. I smiled and waved back, and they all squealed. Still got it. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988715656/" title="Nepali girls on bikes by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Nepali girls on bikes" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8004/6988715656_ba57a9d3b3_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The other major irritation was the early morning wake-up I had in every cheap hotel where I stayed. Nepalis have a vile habit of clearing their throat and spitting, which is bad enough, but when it's a gross cacophony of sniffing, hacking, coughing and retching which wakes me from much-needed sleep at the crack of dawn... It didn't put me in a good humour for the day, ever. <br />
<br />
I was glad to turn north away from the plain and into the mountains. At least there'd be clearer air and views. I took the southerly route from Bharatpur to Hetauda, as I'd be coming back the other way. A local I met told me to turn around and go back when I was twenty miles east of Bharatpur. There was no chance of me doubling back, especially when he couldn't explain why I should. "Very bad way" was all he told me. <br />
<br />
Halfway up the mountain between Hetauda and Kathmandu, I found myself wishing he'd been able to explain himself a little better. I wouldn't have turned around, but it would have been useful to know that the road went straight up from 200 to 2500 metres in 30 miles. I had hoped to ride from Hetauda to Kathmandu in one day, but as I'd only ridden twenty miles at two in the afternoon when I stopped to cook myself some noodles and listen to the sounds of the forest (at least, until a guy on a motorbike chose that exact same spot to pull up, have an incredibly loud conversation on his mobile, then play some tinny music through it), I resigned myself to at least another day before I hit Kathmandu. <br />
<br />
It was a beautiful road. Out of Hetauda it rolled along a wide valley, and I kidded myself that it might be a classic pass between valleys, crossing a col between the watersheds. It really wasn't. It looped up and up the hillsides, switchbacking up the slopes and curving around the valleys. Always up. I'd be grimping up a slope and see the trees open up ahead and think it was the top, but then the road would whip back on itself, leading further up the mountain. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134850231/" title="the road from Hetauda to Kathmandu by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the road from Hetauda to Kathmandu" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7226/7134850231_c4e457a04d_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The switchbacks were the toughest. A section called the Kalitar Twelve Loops danced up a slope which even a mountain goat would have balked at. I was riding so slowly that the schoolkids walking home could take the shortcut and stand at every second corner, grinning at me. At times I saw wagons or buses high up on the road ahead, and I could only plod on. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134850211/" title="the road from Hetauda to Kathmandu by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the road from Hetauda to Kathmandu" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7215/7134850211_1d87995d22_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
If I'd known how high it went, I would have found it easier, but riding up and up and, again, up, not knowing how far or high it went, made it a struggle. I even considered grabbing hold of one of the few wagons which came along to tow me up the slope, but that was too dangerous on such a narrow road, with steep drop-offs and few safety barriers. It's a measure of how tired I was that I even considered it. <br />
<br />
I camped at 2200 metres, which I foolishly thought was over the summit. The road swooped down and around and east and north and south and west so much that I couldn't read the topography, and at my campsite I thought the road dipped down and around the mountainside. <br />
<br />
It was a wonderful campsite, though. I fell asleep to the sound of a little owl hooting through the trees above me, and awoke to a buzzard's haunting call. A bright half moon and unfamiliar stars shone down on my meal, and the cool air was a benison after the sultry sweaty plains. <br />
<br />
At least there were only two miles to the summit, and alleged views of Everest, hidden behind the haze. I had to force my way past a couple of wagons to take full advantage of the the first descent, into a green valley between yet more mountains. I looked around at the hills surrounding me on every side and thought "here we go again".<br />
<br />
However, I hadn't descended very much, and when the road curved around the hillside and aimed for a gap in the mountains, I knew that there wasn't another fucking mountain in the way, and I was probably going to get to Kathmandu that day. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988808380/" title="the road from Hetauda to Kathmandu by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the road from Hetauda to Kathmandu" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7263/6988808380_5f8d7ab4af_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
Over the pass, the descent proper started. It curved around the hillsides in an echo of the road from Hetauda, and only the incredibly lumpy road surface made it less than a joy. Every road in Nepal is so lumpy that I can't believe they've even seen a steamroller. I did pass a steamroller at some roadworks, but it's more likely to be a cunning ruse to hide baby elephants from poachers than a working tool. <br />
<br />
I arrived in Naubise on the main Pokhara-Kathmandu road and realised how far I'd descended, as it was hot. I took shelter from the sun for an hour - it was only 15 miles to Kathmandu and that couldn't take more than a couple of hours, right?<br />
<br />
The main difficulty was the traffic. An artic had somehow ended up side-on in a ditch, and there were mile-long tailbacks as the traffic manoeuvred around it, with little patience, least of all for a cyclist. I overtook the traffic when it was stationary, and even climbing up the hill over to the Kathmandu Valley I was riding quicker than the traffic was moving, but I didn't dare overtake. The van in front of me was actually trying to overtake, even though both of us could see that there was a solid line of slow-moving traffic all the way up the hill. He certainly wasn't giving me any space. I've often wondered if Nepali driving is as much better than Indian driving as it seems, or if the low traffic levels simply denied them the canvas on which they could truly express their talents. My ride into Kathmandu settled that argument in my head. I've never been cut up, pulled out on, left hooked or made to take evasive manoeuvres anywhere as often as during that run into Kathmandu. <br />
<br />
The climb itself was fine, as once I had the sense to stop and let the angry traffic and the choking fumes from the wagons as they grunted up the steep slope get ahead of me. I had my side of the road to myself. <br />
<br />
Thankfully, Kathmandu is much smaller and quieter than I was led to expect - people warned me that it was busy and crazy and you get hassled by taxi drivers and dope sellers, but I've been to India. Kathmandu's just an overgrown village. <br />
<br />
I found my way to the tourist district and stayed at the first guest house I checked out. It's a lovely place, with a pleasant courtyard where other tourists were chatting and where I had a beer to celebrate my arrival. I'm not looking forward to riding back across the Terai in a couple of weeks, when it'll be even hotter. </div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-91012940461429799012012-04-21T09:21:00.002-07:002012-05-02T00:37:54.259-07:00In the Forests of the Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There I was, in a town I didn't even know the name of, with no bike or luggage, wearing only my VC167 jersey, my 3/4 length shorts with the hole at the crotch which I've already repaired once but which had split again, and carrying only my camera, wallet, phone and passport. And there was no room at the inn. The night was warm, and I was eyeing up the benches as a decent place to sleep. I cracked a beer, lit a fag, and waited to see what the landlord would say.<br />
<br />
I'd camped up quite happily in light jungle within sight of the highway, and my biggest concern was keeping the big spiders, beetles, fire ants, enormous moths and crickets out of my tent. I had no appetite so I didn't break out my stove. I had a beer which I'd only bought earlier in the day as the shop couldn't change a 500 rupee note, and after half a day in my pannier it was warm to the touch, and it wasn't going down well. <br />
<br />
A local lad came past, and asked for some of my water. It's lucky that I didn't need any for cooking, as he drank a whole litre in one gulp. He warned me against camping, as he said there were tigers around, but they say that sort of thing everywhere. I think he was inviting me back to stay with his family, but I'd already put up my tent and I couldn't be bothered to strike camp when it was getting dark. I told him that I'd just sleep there, which he misinterpreted as a sign that he should take a nap, which he did, laying down in the brush with his back against the tree trunk. <br />
<br />
About half an hour after he'd left, another couple of young locals came up the same way, walking towards the road. Again they asked for some water, though only the elder of the two drank any. I gave another bottle to the younger, who seemed grateful for it. He never spoke; only the elder did, in a mix of Nepali and English which I could hardly understand. I did understand the word "tiger" again, and he kept asking if I had any friends with me, even going to the extent of shining his phone light into my tent to confirm there was no one else with me, at which he gleefully said "no friend!" I chased them off, and sat uncomfortably in my tent, sweating gently in the heat and humidity. <br />
<br />
I stepped out of my tent to get some fresher air, and to shoo away the wee beasties that were gathering around my tent. <br />
<br />
I heard rustling in the trees to the east. I ignored it at first, as it was probably leaves and other debris falling from the trees. Back into the tent to concentrate on drinking and not being so paranoid. <br />
<br />
However, the sound was drawing closer, and it was a big sound. I got back out, and shone my head torch in the direction of the noise. It was away from the path, into the heart of the jungle, but I shouted a couple of "hellos" and "namastes", in case it was a local gathering wood or taking a shortcut. It was getting slowly closer, and it was clearly something big. I shone my head torch in that direction again, and half-thought it was a pair of tiger's eyes reflecting the light, but I told myself not to be so daft as it was more likely to be a couple of the glowflies that were flitting about, or a spider in one of the trees. <br />
<br />
However, I then heard a low but distinct growl coming from the same direction. I'll never forget that sound. It wasn't loud, but it contained such a promise of danger and menace that I didn't hesitate. It was long past the point where I could have struck camp; I went to grab my phone, realised I'd already put it into my jersey pocket, and retreated to the road, listening carefully for sounds of pursuit. <br />
<br />
None came. The road was utterly deserted, though, and the traffic that did come along ignored my increasingly desperate arm signals. I was alert to every sound coming from the undergrowth, every falling leaf and crackle of dead branches. <br />
<br />
After what felt like an age but was probably ten minutes, a bus stopped for me. I stood in the doorway and let the night breeze cool me down. The conductor and other passengers said there was a hotel 30 km away, and that was where I'd be getting off. While I was on the bus and my heart rate came down from a whine to a purr, I did wonder if it had been some elaborate hoax by the locals to scare me away and steal all my kit. I'd only find out in the morning. Luckily, I had my most nickable items (camera, phone, iPod, passport and wallet) on my person, and more importantly I'm not especially tied to my possessions. Other cycle tourists have commented on how relaxed I am about leaving my bike unlocked and not bothering to take my panniers off. I had made a conscious decision that I wouldn't be tied to my bike while on this trip, which made it very easy to leave it all behind rather than face the wrath of a tiger in its territory. <br />
<br />
Realistically, it seemed that it was too over-elaborate to have been an attempt at theft when they could have just outnumbered me and intimidated me into handing over my possessions. And the approach of whatever it was had been too slow, too stealthy, and too focussed in one place to have been a gang of locals playing tricks. I did worry that the second local who'd come along had been very specific about checking that I was alone, but that's a question I get asked so often that to be paranoid about it as absurd. The other possibility was that it was a wild cow, rustling through the jungle and scavenging for food, but the cows around here are well domesticated, and there was that growl...<br />
<br />
The landlord found a room for me, with a mattress about half an inch thick and a hard wooden board underneath. I didn't care, especially for the equivalent of less than two quid. I scrounged some pen and paper to record my thoughts, as I didn't want to waste my phone battery. I'd had the forethought to mark my position on the highway, and I was going to use my phone to find my way back there the next morning. I'd worry about my possessions then. <br />
<br />
I slept straight through until 6 am and I was immediately awake, catching the world's slowest bus back. I did find out the name of the town where I slept (Lamki) and I explained - or tried to explain - to the bus driver that I wanted to go to a point about 5 km after Sukhad. They understood Sukhad. <br />
<br />
I was too worried and nervous to get travel sick on those journeys, not to mention that it was in the cool parts of the day. Midday on those buses would be deeply unpleasant, but I was starting to think that I might have to catch buses, if my bike and tent and luggage had been stolen. I was preparing myself for the worst. <br />
I had locked my bike, however, and wrapped one of the guy ropes around the lock, which I usually do when I'm camping, if only to give myself some reassurance. I am relaxed about the idea of theft, and most people are deserving of trust, but I'm not daft. I'd looped my locks around both wheels, so stealing the bike would have meant the thief snipping the guy rope, lifting the bike and carrying it away. I was hoping that, at worst, scavengers might have come along and nicked my panniers. I could live with that, and carry on, as long as my bike was still there. <br />
<br />
The bus overshot my location, as the GPS function on my phone was struggling to find my location in the poor reception pocket between villages. I spotted a landmark I recognised and shouted at the driver to stop. I didn't really need my phone to find the spot, but it was reassuring to have that backup. <br />
<br />
It was with some trepidation that I walked back down that track, my feet crackling over the dead leaves. I jumped at every sound as the leaves and catweasels (local equivalent, anyway: fist-sized stickles dropping from the trees made a frighteningly loud noise) fell to earth. <br />
<br />
No tigers, and my tent and bike and all my possessions were there, just as I'd left them. I was so relieved. I'd been imagining that I'd come back to a bare campsite, and have to call the police, explain to them where I was, go through the rigmarole of filling in reports and insurance claims, as well as coming away feeling like a right idiot for having been gulled so easily. <br />
<br />
I packed up quickly. I wasn't going to hang about. I rolled to the next town and booked into a cheap guest house to have a day off. Looking at the map, I'm only 20 kilometres from Bardia National Park, where there are wild tigers. Maybe I should have taken those locals seriously. <br />
<br />
But was it a tiger? It could have been anything. A cow, or a nervous deer creeping through the undergrowth. <br />
When I had dragged my bike back up to the road, I stopped for a drink, and in the loose sand by the road I saw fresh pawprints, which I recognised from Corbett National Park as being the prints of a tiger.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134554039/" title="camping in the jungle, Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="camping in the jungle, Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7052/7134554039_45067e5d05_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-14735526326517495632012-04-21T07:27:00.002-07:002012-05-01T22:22:27.755-07:00Another Fine Mess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I spent an evening re-packing my bike so that I could travel light on the road to Darchula. Everything I needed (including warm clothes for the higher altitudes I hoped to reach) went into two front panniers and a dry bag on the front, with my tent on the back. <br />
<br />
Distant mountains greeted me at the other side of Dadeldhura, the peaks vanishing amongst the clouds. Naturally I paused to take a few photos, drawing much amusement from the locals.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134493479/" title="Dadeldhura by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Dadeldhura" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7095/7134493479_384861a9f7_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<br />
<br />
A quick descent to a small village, then the climb started. I was in the granny ring almost from the first, and relieved that I had left my three biggest bags at the guest house. <br />
<br />
The road was getting rougher after Dadeldhura, but it's still an astonishing feat of engineering. It rises as high as 2300 metres, cut into the sides of the valleys and switchbacking up the Shiwaliks. There are two feet-deep ditches along the side of the road, and drainage channels dug into the hillside to divert the monsoon rains. The traffic was light and usually well-behaved, apart from a bus driver who wasn't going to give me any room on a right-hander on a quick descent. I braked to let him pass - likely as not, his brakes weren't up to the job.<br />
<br />
But mostly I was on my own. Huge black eagles soared above the trees, and a few goats trotted across the road. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134493547/" title="touring the Shiwaliks, western Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="touring the Shiwaliks, western Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7081/7134493547_32476527e0_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
After an eight or nine mile climb over the top to Anarkholi Bazaar (all the villages are suffixed "bazaar"), the road turned to shite. I looked at the surface, and how deep and steep into the valley the road went, and decided to turn back. If it had been a through road, I would probably have carried on, but I would have had to come back the same way, and I didn't fancy riding over that lot twice.<br />
<br />
I had a distant view of the high Himalayas, but they were obscured by clouds, and I waited around, snacking on bourbon biscuits, to see if the cloud would lift. A local teacher came along for a chat, and invited me back to his house further up the valley, but his report of the state of the road didn't inspire me to go on, even though he did say that the views were much better after another 50 kilometres. It would have taken me another day just to ride that!<br />
<br />
A few other locals passed, navvies with hand tools, donkey herders and one young lad who was transporting a huge roll of wire down the road like a kid with a hoop. This thing was six feet in diameter, and he was struggling to control it. Ever seen the Laurel and Hardy movie where they're trying to shift a piano up that hill in San Francisco? It ran away from him and into the ditch, and when he had manhandled it out, the loops started to unwind. I chased him down and helped him wrap it together with a few cable ties from my toolbag. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988439036/" title="to you, to me... by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="to you, to me..." height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7061/6988439036_8e81713528_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The clouds weren't shifting. In fact they were thickening and it was overcast for the rest of the day. I gave it up and rode back to Dadeldhura - and what a ride! Nine and a half of the twelve miles were downhill. My bike was much more manoeuvrable without all the weight on it, and despite the rough surface I was easily the fastest thing on the road. I did draw the line at overtaking other vehicles on such a narrow track, and I couldn't let it go owing to the surface and the bends, but still.<br />
<br />
The guest house owner was surprised to see me back, as he'd expected me to be gone for four or five days. He seemed to think I'd given up as it was too hilly, and I don't think he believed me when I said I was riding on to Kathmandu. I shrugged and ordered some chips. I'm sick of dhal bat, which is one of the staples here and in north India. One day in India, I had dhal bat three times. Later on, I cooked myself some macaroni and cheese, to celebrate getting my appetite back. <br />
<br />
There was no 6 am wake up for chai the next morning, thankfully, and I had a lie-in until 8.30. I hadn't bothered re-packing the night before - I know where everything belongs on my bike by now. Porridge and coffee, then I was off. <br />
<br />
Astonishingly, the clouds had completely lifted overnight, and for the first time I had clear views of the Api range on the horizon. I hadn't realised how much the clouds had been covering the peaks, which were much closer than I had realised, and the expanse of jagged white stabbing at the sky was in my left eye until I crossed over into the valley where Budar nestled. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988439134/" title="Dadeldhura and the Api range by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="Dadeldhura and the Api range" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7186/6988439134_f4207f5a25_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The ride back to the plains from Dadeldhura took me a day and a half, which is a day less than it took on the way up. I could have covered the distance in a day, but I liked the little guest house in Budar, so I broke the route up there, and had a chat with the other guests, who were a mixed bunch of Nepali tourists and UN aid workers. The food there was good as well, and cheap - an all you can eat platter for about 50p.<br />
<br />
I didn't get a 6 am wake up there, either. It was 4.40 am. The people in the flat below had to get moving at that time, which is fair enough, but I did lose my rag a bit when the same phone alarm went off four times, and when they had very loud conversations while stomping up and down the stairs. I got back to sleep after another hour. <br />
<br />
Then came the 6 am wake up. I decided to get up. <br />
<br />
I haven't really adapted to local breakfasts, which are usually paratha (flat bread stuffed with spicy potato, peas or whatever) or spicy omelettes. The staff were good enough to bring me some hot water which I could use to make coffee and porridge. I've tried and failed to get milk here in Nepal, and eventually I gave up and bought some dried milk, which is better than nothing, and at least doesn't go off in the heat, as fresh milk tends to do. <br />
<br />
The sunlit ride along the pine valley felt very different to the ride in the other direction, when low mists curled between the branches and it reminded me of cycling in Scotland. The landscape of the Shiwaliks is like nowhere else I've ridden. It's steep, and rich, and green, unlike barren Turkey or rocky, dry Iran, and the treeline goes further up than I would have believed. I paused to look up at the slopes, and tried to imagine the route the road was going to take up there. It seemed impossible. <br />
<br />
It swept up somehow, and again the descent at the other side was a very different experience to the cloudy, moody landscape I'd ridden up. I stopped for provisions at a little village store and sat there for about an hour, chatting with the locals, one of whom insisted on buying me a beer. I refused at first, as it was only 11 in the morning and the climbing wasn't done yet. It went down well, though. <br />
<br />
The massive descent down to the plains was tough. Not that I had to pedal, but it was getting hot in the midday sun, even at 30 mph I could feel the heat, and the tarmac was melting on the sharp corners. Again I thought how lucky I'd been that it was overcast and cool when I'd been going up. <br />
<br />
Back at Ataria and on the Mahendra Highway (the main east-west road in Nepal) again, I took a break for a couple of hours to escape the heat. A succession of Nepali cyclists stopped to chat, and to drink my water. I didn't mind at first, but none of them were carrying even water bottles; if you're out in temperatures of 30+ degrees, why can't you carry your own water? <br />
<br />
A westerly wind was picking up while I scoffed some biscuits and cheese puffs (actual crisps are quite hard to come by out here, except in nasty flavours like tomato and masala). A teenage girl and her sister had stopped to beg for some water, and they gave me a little race as I set off, the younger sitting sidesaddle on the rear rack. This sort of thing has happened all the time in Nepal and India, which annoyed me a lot when I was trying to ride 100 mile days on the plains, and wanted to find a rhythm that I could maintain all day. I'd overtake a cyclist, he'd (it's usually a he) take umbrage and race to overtake, then slow down immediately. It was easy enough to overhaul them, especially in India, and when I had the energy I'd play a cruel game by setting a pace which they struggled to maintain, then just as they were thinking they had the legs on me, I'd wave bye-bye, click it into the big ring and scarper over the horizon at 23 mph. <br />
<br />
Nepali cyclists seem to have a bit more stamina than their Indian counterparts, though. I stayed behind these two lasses until I decided that I should make the most of the tailwind, and overtook them to admiring whoops from them, and with a quick wave from me. <br />
<br />
I quickly rode twenty five miles, and stopped in a village for provisions for camping. Plenty of water, some beer and some snacks. I did ask about a guesthouse, which the guys at the beer shop assured me was just up the road, but I couldn't see it. I rode on until I'd cleared the village and the outlying houses, nipped down a footpath into the jungle, and pitched my tent. Only my second night of camping in Nepal.</div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-38442658091429837932012-04-17T09:48:00.002-07:002012-05-01T22:15:52.505-07:00Dadeldhura Nicely!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had a day off in Mahendranagar, not unrelated to the previous night's drinking to celebrate Nepali New Year. When I did leave, I was up earlier than I'd planned as my hotel was opposite the bus stand, and for some reason the drivers sit for hours blaring their horns while their buses fill with passengers. This is not conducive to lying in.<br />
<br />
I had planned to take a side road up the valley towards my destination. Well, I say destination. It was just that on my ridiculously large-scale map (1:1,000,000, which was the only map I could find) there are roads marked going north up the valley, which I thought I'd follow, hoping to see icy peaks and get some climbing into my legs. I tend to plan things on the go, which is just as well as I haven't been able to find any reports on the web of other touring cyclists coming this way.<br />
<br />
I must have missed that side road, or more likely it was such an unprepossessing dirt road that I dismissed it. I did see the other end of it further up the valley, and I was relieved that I hadn't taken it, as it was a muddy track, and given how hilly the main road was, it would have been hell to ride with all the weight on my bike.<br />
<br />
Actually, I wasn't even sure that I was on the main highway. There was so little traffic, especially compared to congested India - I blame it on the New Year festivities. However, locals assured me that I was going the right way, and it was an enjoyable plod through Sukla Phanta Wildlife Reserve, the road lined with trees and rolling pleasantly. Good surface, too. <br />
<br />
Food for the day was mainly cream doughnuts, as I still have hardly any appetite and struggle to keep down anything richer than porridge. Sadly, the doughnuts were to become victims of ants later that day when I camped up. <br />
<br />
There were no roadsigns and all of the kilometre posts were in Nepali, but I did find the turning I wanted, up to Dadeldhura. Locals were astonished when I said I was going to Dadeldhura - I think hardly any tourists come here, especially by bicycle. Western Nepal is the poorest region of an already-poor country. With this in mind, I stocked up on plenty of water and food and beer in Atariya. <br />
<br />
This was where the road started to go up into the Shiwaliks, the lowest and newest range of the Himalayas. I was reminded of a couple of things on this climb - firstly, you do need food. I was stopping regularly on the climb (which was a biggie - the road ascends from about 200 metres above sea level on the plains to 2000 metres, and these are only the foothills), to let my legs rest and take a few photos of the impressive views. The escarpment rises almost directly out of the plains, and the contrast in altitudes made for some magnificent drop-offs. <br />
<br />
Secondly, distance on the map doesn't necessarily reflect distance on the road. After crossing a rickety bridge over the Mohana River, the road switchbacked up the hillside, and instead of the 40 miles to Dadeldhura from Atariya which the map suggested, it was about 90 miles. No map at a usable scale would be able to show all these switchbacks. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6985190910/" title="camping in the Shiwaliks, Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="camping in the Shiwaliks, Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8001/6985190910_6b2bf15839_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
I stopped early to camp at one of the few flat spots by the road and lazed about for a few hours until I pitched my tent and cooked my cordon bleu of noodles with Bovril. A few curious locals came past, and insisted on looking at my maps. It had taken me ages to fold the things at the right page, and within seconds they managed to mangle them out of kilter. I'm not sure they knew what they were looking at, as one girl spent ages looking at northern Tibet on the even-more-ridiculously large scale map I carry, which I've only kept as it has relief and spot heights on it, so I can see what I'm getting into. <br />
<br />
Later, a few more wandered up, and one lad spoke a bit of English, but that didn't make conversation very much easier. Among other things he asked "what is your God?" and rather than trying to explain atheism to him (which is difficult enough with people who have a good grasp of English - most people subscribe to some sort of faith in Nepal and India), I told him I was a Christian. <br />
<br />
Hypocrisy never pays. He pulled out a cross to show that he was a Christian too, and the next morning he came up at 6.30 am to shout at me: "Wake up, uncle! Praise the Lord!"<br />
<br />
"Fuck off," I shouted back. I'm never at my best in the mornings and it was still raining. They did scarper, and I had another hour's sleep. <br />
<br />
My sleep had been disturbed enough already; since a rat had chewed into my luggage and eaten a hole in my sleeping mat in a nasty hotel in Madhya Pradesh, I have tried to repair it, but it still keeps going down. I was awoken by a huge stone digging into my side at 1.30 am, and disconsolately I straddled the mat to pump a bit more air into it. At the same time a huge storm was clashing over the mountains, but in the next valley. I stepped outside my tent for a bit to watch the show. <br />
<br />
More climbing the next day. I reckon it was 25 miles uphill from the plains to the top of the escarpment. My worries about buying provisions were completely unfounded. Villages were quite regular, even the smaller ones having little shops where you can buy biscuits and peanut brittle and instant noodles, and the larger ones have roadside dhabas (also selling bottled water and beer) where the meal is usually an all-you-can-eat platter of soup, rice and fried potatoes. I could only keep down the potatoes, and rather than leave my meal and appear to be a wasteful westerner I took it away with me in a plastic bag and fed it to some monkeys up the road.<br />
<br />
I nearly turned back near the top of the climb, as the road turned to shite. At some point the monsoon rains had washed away the surface and all that was left was mud, gravel and huge rocks embedded in the mud. As this was also the steepest point of the route, I had to push my bike. Thankfully good tarmac returned after about 200 yards.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6985190924/" title="the road to Dadeldhura, Western Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the road to Dadeldhura, Western Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8014/6985190924_5c07c0d93d_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
I'm really pleased I carried on. It wasn't just the road surface which was making me nervous, it was also the isolation. The New Year celebrations, and it being a Sunday, were obviously keeping people off the roads, but after congested India where houses and people lined the roadsides and I couldn't so much as stop without a crowd forming, it was unnerving to be on my own again. <br />
<br />
Not to mention the storm that was brewing. While I was riding along the rim of the valley, I heard a few rumbles which seemed to come from different directions, so that I wasn't sure if I was riding towards the storm, or away from it. I should have known. <br />
<br />
Over the top of the hill, and I finally lost the views of the plains as I descended into a green valley of pines and mist. The road was still greasy from rain which had obviously fallen recently. I took it easy on the switchbacks, and stopped at the next village for chai with a local elder, whom I pestered for advice about the next stretch. We didn't share a language, but I got the message across by making the universal sign for hilliness: hold your hand at a 45 degree angle and stab up with your fingers. His reply was that it's about twenty kilometres to Budar, where there was a guest house, and the road goes along the valley rather than up to the peaks. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988379150/" title="old chap in western Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="old chap in western Nepal " height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7247/6988379150_6f85dfa4d4_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<br />
<br />
I thanked him for the chai and left, just as the storm hit. I took shelter in another dhaba a hundred yards down the hill, where I was in good company as not only did a few swallows follow me in and perch on the trailing electrical wires, but a half dozen armed police were sat around eating their dinner. The torrential rain wasn't slackening, so I grabbed a beer and sat with the coppers. Beer and alcohol are available nearly everywhere. I don't think the half-drunk bottle of vodka on the table belonged to the coppers, and they didn't offer me any, though they were kind enough to share their dinner of...meat. They didn't understand what I meant when I asked what kind of meat it was - they just said it was meat. I did ask what kind of animal it came from, but the reply was "yes, animal." I suspect it was goat, as goats are the commonest livestock around here, but I've never had goat before and the meat was too well spiced for much flavour to linger. Texture-wise, it was more like pork scratchings than anything else. <br />
<br />
I asked the lads the same question - how hilly is the road from here? I asked loads of questions about facilities and road conditions of the locals, as I didn't have any other information to go on, and I received lots of useful, reassuring information about the conditions and the traffic and the number of villages. One copper told me that the road to Budar was very hilly, at which point I wondered if I'd misunderstood the old man, and if having that beer had been a bad idea. <br />
<br />
I reckon the old man had it about right. The road wound between low valleys, occasionally climbing a bit, but nothing to compare with that big climb away from the plains. The rain passed over and it was a wonderful beer-fuelled meander through the pine forests and lush valleys, with a rainbow far below me. <br />
I checked into the guest house at Budar, planning to fix my mat, but I only had the energy to read a bit and wash my clothes. I couldn't even face proper food - I ate a few doughnuts and some crisps.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7134493325/" title="a rainbow near Budar, western Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="a rainbow near Budar, western Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7063/7134493325_b5bb231260_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The rain and clouds cleared during the night - it was a bright, crisp morning. I'm pleased to be away from the sultry plains and into the mountains, where the air is rare. I'm even enjoying the rain, as until the last week I hadn't been rained on for 5,000 miles. No doubt the novelty will wear off soon. <br />
<br />
Breakfast was more doughnuts, and an omelette from the guest house. I asked for a plain omelette, as they usually put far too many onions in for my taste. The correct amount of onion, by the way, is none. <br />
<br />
It was another huge climb out of Budar. I was glad of that omelette. But with the clear air and high cloud base, I could see for miles. Looking back, there were hills and hills, which I'd already crossed. I was surprised to see how many lines of hills lay behind me. I was travelling slowly and I hadn't realised how much terrain I'd covered. And still no glacier-clad crags cresting the northern sky. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6988379132/" title="the Shiwaliks, western Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the Shiwaliks, western Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8026/6988379132_4f24db1c45_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
Again, I took plenty of stops, to watch the buzzards circling above the trees, and to spot shapes in the fluffy cumulous clouds which started to develop in mid-afternoon. Is there anything fluffier than a cloud?<br />
Apart from a couple of brief downhills, it was an 18-mile climb to around 2500 metres from Budar. A couple of Nepali kids ran alongside me for a bit, and they probably could have overtaken me at times. I had a stop at Gaira Bazaar, about 12 miles from Budar, where I tried and failed to negotiate a plate of potatoes/alu.<br />
<br />
I had to go carefully on the descent - the road surface was OK, but there were enough bumps and lumps and washouts to make me wary of letting it go. It was around this point that I realised I was making a one-way trip, and I could have left half my luggage at the guest house in Budar to collect on the way back. I'm unlikely to need my maps of India or the National Geographic Titanic Anniversary Edition on the road to Darchula. <br />
<br />
The landscape since the plains had been typical of the Shiwaliks - broad, flat-topped hills covered in verdant forests, above well-kept farmland. The hillsides have fields stepped into them, and mountain goats roam while the herders doze in the sun. Locals walked the road from village to village carrying huge bundles of firewood or water - it was usually the women doing most of the carrying, while the men walked alongside and chatted. <br />
<br />
But at the top of the climb the landscape started to change. I had my first view of the middle Himalayas, where bare slopes thrust above the treeline, and above those, in the hazy distance, a glimpse of crags and glaciers. The Upper Himalayas. I had a burst of joy at seeing them, finally. The view was occluded by trees and distance, but they were there, and I was getting closer. <br />
<br />
I was so taken in that I took the wrong turning at a fork in the road, and it was only when I'd screamed down a steep descent for two miles that I looked at the road ahead and thought "Dadeldhura's not that low!" I checked with Google Maps on my phone, but that didn't know where Dadeldhura was, and I asked a passing local, and he confirmed that yup, it's back up that way. My only consolations were that I'd stopped before going all the way down, and that this alternative route did give me some damn good views. 45 minutes later, I winched myself back to where the road had forked. In my defence, the sign at the turn did say "Dadeldhura," but it actually meant that Dadeldhura was in the other direction. Obviously. <br />
<br />
I found a cheap guest house in Dadeldhura and again, I was too tired to fix my mat. I ordered veg fried rice, but even that was too rich for my stomach. I decided to have a day off to look around the town, re-organise my kit so that I can travel light to Darchula, and finally, hopefully, fix my mat. I didn't get as much sleep as I'd hoped for - the dawn chorus of sniff-hawk-spit from adjoining rooms kiboshed that, as did the 6 am wake-up for yak butter tea. <br />
<br />
I have been the main attraction in town as I don't think there are any other western tourists here at the moment, but Dadeldhura is well set-up to cater for visitors. It has a few hotels and ATMs and lots of little shops. I had a wander around and topped up my phone credit, but the level of attention was far less than in India: mainly, friendly people waving and saying Namastes. I didn't stay out for long as there isn't anything to see, and the alleged cyber cafe didn't materialise, so no photos yet. <br />
<br />
I have (I think) fixed my mat, and I've set aside three bags to leave here for a few days while I travel up and up, to Darchula on the border with India. It feels a little bit like cheating, but I'll be able to ride faster, and reports of the road conditions suggest that the surface gets rocky, gravelly and muddy. I don't want to place that sort of stress on my bike when I don't need to. Of course, I'm hoping to have close views of the Api range and the high, high Himalayas. Why else did I come?<br />
<br />
A few numbers:<br />
<br />
14/04/2012, Day 217: from Mahendranagar, H01, Altaria, H14, campsite - 37.53 miles, 3:44:26, 18.4 mph max<br />
15/04/2012, Day 218: from campsite, H14, Chhatiwan, Budar - 31.23 miles, 4:24:48, 31.4 mph max<br />
16/04/2012, Day 219: from Budar, Gaira Bazaar, Dadeldhura - 39.09 miles, 5:15:03, 36.3 mph max, 8057.0 miles in total<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6985190920/" title="riding through the Shiwaliks, Nepal by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="riding through the Shiwaliks, Nepal" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8019/6985190920_0788444ceb_z.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-12477648874715961652012-04-13T09:17:00.001-07:002012-05-01T22:13:32.436-07:00India's Final Throw (and some friendly Aussies)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I made it to Nepal! It's an open border between India and Nepal, but I was still surprised at how relaxed the border controls were. Many people stroll or cycle across the border, or take a ride on a cart, and I rode straight past the Nepali immigration control before I doubled back, a little sheepishly. I asked for and was given a three-month visa, handed over 102 US dollars, and while my man was organising the paperwork I wandered off to the Tourist Information office for a chat and to grab a free map. Even the Indian side was remarkably simple - only a single form to fill out and no searching questions about my reasons for being there. <br />
<br />
I was relieved, to say the least, as my last few days in India compressed all the difficulties of travelling in India into a neat package.<br />
<br />
I'd arrived in Ramnagar, planning to take a safari around Ronnie Corbett National Park (actually Jim Corbett National Park, but when Jonathan was here we'd started giving daft names to the Indian places, so Rishikesh was Little Chef or Ricky Lake, Dehra Dun was Desperate Dan, Khatima was Khatima Whitbread... you get the idea), where there be tigers, but when I saw the swell of activity and noise in Ramnagar, and thought of the administrative burden involved in getting into the park - and the expense, as I was on my own - I nearly carried on riding for the border. Luckily, I felt too knackered to do anything except stop.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7131208149/" title="the road above Rishikesh by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the road above Rishikesh" height="480" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8144/7131208149_79e8e2d40d_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
Luckily, because the next morning I ran into a family of Australians who had a spare space in their safari, and though we didn't get into the park that day (and I had to get up at 5 am and bray on the door of the hotel to be let out), they suggested that I come out to the campsite where they were staying. It turned out to be a lovely couple of days, drinking and talking rubbish and drinking and exchanging travellers' tales. Steve and Sally (originally from Northern Ireland and York, respectively) had come out to India with their younger daughter Keira to meet their other daughter, Sorcha, who was travelling around India with a family friend, Paula. Best of all, they'd booked a safari the next afternoon, so at least I wouldn't have done all that shite cycling around the plains for nothing.<br />
<br />
It was too easy. I should have known better. <br />
<br />
The problems started when I approached the proprietor of the camp site and asked to stay. He didn't have a problem - I could stay in one of the tents for 400 rupees. <br />
<br />
400 rupees! Not only had I been paying less than that at my hotel, not only was everyone else paying 250 rupees, but I had my own tent, which I said I'd pitch in the corner, and I offered him 100 rupees. <br />
<br />
No no, government regulations. That was his answer to everything. <br />
<br />
- Why is it 400 rupees?<br />
- Government regulations.<br />
- Why can't I pitch my own tent?<br />
- Government regulations.<br />
- But these guys are paying 250 rupees!<br />
- Send them here. <br />
<br />
I gave up. Paula (originally from Liverpool, which you can probably hear in her voice if you read her <a href="http://paula2781-pommywantsapoppadum.blogspot.in/?zx=30d4ce6f8e4450d1&m=1">entertaining blog</a> about her Indian travels) got the same answers when she went up to try, except for when she said that I'd be camping by the river instead, and the proprietor said that was too dangerous - tigers. We all laughed at that. Steve said we'd all sleep down by the river if there was a chance of seeing tigers. <br />
I had meant to leave the campsite, but I drank far too much and ended up dossing in Steve and Sally's tent. I slept well.<br />
<br />
The next morning, the proprietor collared me, smiling, and called me into his office. He invited me to sit down, perused my passport with excessive attention and told me quite seriously "what you have done is illegal."<br />
<br />
I shrugged and took my punishment like a man. He made me fill out three forms. In India there are always two forms to complete - the hotel register and a form for foreign visitors. I was too hung over to register what the third form was. Probably a form for occasions when cyclists have their own tents, argue about pitching them, then stay anyway without paying or completing the forms in advance. There's a form for everything. I was reminded of the saying that the British introduced administration to India, so in revenge the Indians perfected it. It was nearly as bad as the time I had the police called out on me at the Caravan and Camping site in Keswick when I pitched my tent without booking in as it was late and the office was closed. I smiled my way through it, and nipped back into Ramnagar to post a parcel of old diaries and maps back to the UK, before our safari in the afternoon. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7131241727/" title="the Douglas Family by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="the Douglas Family" height="640" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7086/7131241727_7dd903f6df_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<br />
<br />
The safari was very good. I hadn't expected to see tigers, and sadly we didn't, but we came close. The guide pointed to fresh tiger prints in the track, and as we were leaving the park a black-faced monkey was putting out a warning call from the treetops to warn that a tiger was close. It was too dark by thencto see (despite the driver flashing his headlights through the trees), but the guide said that the tiger would have been laying low in the undergrowth, and as we drove by I commented that it was very easy to imagine a tiger stalking through the trees a hundred yards from the road.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7131241763/" title="tiger and cub pawprints in Corbett National Park by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="tiger and cub pawprints in Corbett National Park" height="640" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8009/7131241763_9424686fdb_z.jpg" width="480" /></a>
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7131241779/" title="river in Corbett National Park by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img alt="river in Corbett National Park" height="480" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7249/7131241779_1deb575e42_z.jpg" width="640" /></a>
<br />
<br />
What struck me most about the park was how well kept it was. Unlike the sad situation in much of the rest of India, there wasn't litter everywhere, and entry is closely controlled to ensure that the wildlife takes priority over tourism. We saw loads of deer, and oodles of birdlife. Paula said that it should be renamed Corbett Peacock Reserve, we saw so many peafowl, and heard so many of their evocative calls echoing between the trees. We saw an eagle perched on the rocks at the river's edge, and great hornbills cawing from branch to branch, making the trees shake as they shifted their huge weight. I should have been able to spot more - it's a shame, really, that I sent my guide to Indian birds back to the UK that morning.<br />
I had been expecting lush, rich rainforests, but it's a dry deciduous forest, and the crackle of dead leaves announced the presence of animals creeping through the trees. I expect it's very different after the monsoon. Still, I really enjoyed the sense that I was interloping in these creature's habitat. <br />
<br />
Back at the campsite, the proprietor and his mates were getting hammered on whisky, and invited me over. Aha, I thought, all is forgiven. <br />
<br />
No. The next morning, after I'd said my farewells to Paula and the Douglas family, I went up to pay, and he made me fill out the forms again! Only two this time, at least, so perhaps his hangover wasn't as bad as it seemed to be. <br />
<br />
Nor was India done with me - it was a pleasant enough ride along smooth quiet roads on the fringes of the national park, with lots of shelter from the encroaching trees, but I simply had no energy, and stopped at the next big town, Haldwani. Haldwani must rank (deliberate choice of word there) as one of the least pleasant places I have ever visited. It was just too busy, and I've had enough of random grinning loons staring at me when I pass by. The traffic was appalling - I had a slight sense of humour breakdown when I eventually summoned the will to leave the hotel at about 11.30, and shouted abuse at the drivers who left-hooked me while on their mobiles, at the tuk-tuk driver who thought that I'd welcome him riding alongside me and grinning inanely while I was trying to navigate the traffic and potholes, and at the beggar who grabbed my arm while I was stopping at a traffic light. Even when I got onto the open road, I missed the direct route I'd wanted to take and ended up going around the point of the triangle to the border. Only because I was given duff directions by the people I'd asked, who for some reason assumed that I'd prefer riding an extra 30 miles to my destination, rather than taking the direct road. <br />
<br />
Ah well. At least the weather was playing its part - it was cool and overcast, and the blessed rain fell on me for the first time since Kayseri, in central Turkey. I've missed the rain. I did worry that it would become a storm and make the roads even more dangerous than in the dry, but it was a cooling rain which only lasted long enough to take the edge off the heat. <br />
<br />
I am pleased to be out of India. The intensity of the attention is overwhelming at times, and even this nondescript border town instantly feels more relaxed. I have enjoyed India (mostly, for the same reasons I sometimes hate it), but the cycling on the plains was getting me down, and it's bound to be better here in Nepal, where there are fewer people, less traffic, and more mountains.</div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-3499317700708844152012-04-07T07:28:00.002-07:002012-04-07T08:30:59.679-07:00We Gotta Get Out Of These PlainsThere's a streak of masochism in cycle tourists. At least, that's the outside view. I sometimes feel as though I'm constantly fielding questions from curious, if doubting, passers-by. Why are you doing that, why don't you take a flight, or a bus, or take a car? Why do you go to Scotland in winter, or ride through Iran? I was in cold, soğuk, eastern Turkey at the start of last winter, and when I stayed with Ercan in Sivas he and his friends tried to stop me from going east across the icy passes and up to the Erzurum plateau, and Ercan firmly believed that no more cyclists would be passing his way that winter. But while I was there he was contacted by a couple of British cyclists who were also heading east, and still they came. It was cold, but the mountains were beautiful, and possibly the hardest part was fending off kind-hearted truckers who wanted to give me a lift into Iran.<br /><br />Still, there is some truth in the stereotype. I left Delhi about a week ago, and it has been some of the most unpleasant cycling I've ever experienced, for three reasons. First, I've been suffering from an underbubble of mild illness. Second, it's damn hot, and with me being a late riser, I don't often take advantage of the cool early mornings - the one time I had an early start was when a cockroach landing on my pillow woke me at 4.45, so I have to do most of my cycling in the hottest part of the day. Third, the plains are flat, and tedious. With all due respect to Panipat and Saharanpur and Kashipur, it's been a tour of shit towns. Panipat's defining feature was the concrete flyover of the Grand Trunk Road grumbling through the centre of town, and the only thing I remember about Saharanpur is that it had a very busy interchange near the railway station. Oh, and the roads around it were in an awful state. Loose hardcore and rocks embedded into concrete do not a happy cycling surface make. And the heat just saps my strength. I thought I was going to get a good ducking when I saw storm clouds on the horizon as I was riding towards Kashipur, and I would have been glad of a bit of rain to cool me off, but I missed the rain, and I only caught the winds at the edge of the storm system, which whipped the dust off the fields and sand-blasted my face and arms.<br /><br />I'm sick of flat riding. I'm sick of pedalling all the time. I'm sick of seeing nothing on the horizon. Even my plan to get into the mountains for my route to Ramnagar was kiboshed by road closures, so after a day and a half in the Himalayan foothills around Dehra Dun and Rishikesh, enjoying the views and the cool air, I was sucked back into the clammy, smoggy, congested plains.<br /><br />I should have just ridden straight to Ramnagar from Delhi, really. I never once considered taking a bus or a train, however, and not only because I get seriously travel sick on buses (especially the way they're driven here) and because I couldn't face once again the trauma of trying to navigate the administration requirements involved in getting a bike on a train in India. I set out to cycle, so cycle I shall. It isn't one of those times when I've fought my way through hardships to get to my destination and arrived with the glow of achievement, of a challenge overcome. It's just been bloody hard.<br /><br />But, when I look back at this from happier days in cooler climes, these will be the times I've paid the price for the happy cycling. As I say, there is some truth in the stereotype. We push ourselves through the crap times, knowing or hoping that there are better roads and places over the next horizon, and that every day of shit roads and shit towns brings you closer to that.<br /><br />Still. I need some inspiration, and I'll be immensely relieved when I leave behind the humidity, and the heat, and the plains.Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-27718503849382770442012-03-29T05:03:00.004-07:002012-03-30T05:20:00.453-07:00Two Weeks Off<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7026396755/" title="Red Fort, Delhi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7222/7026396755_95f9f4876a_z.jpg" alt="Red Fort, Delhi" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />I like Delhi. Almost every other tourist I've met has hated or at least disliked the place, and I can see why. If you're on a tight schedule and you need to, say, organise a new sim card or onward travel in a morning, it can be immensely frustrating, as things tend to happen at their own pace in India, and trying to make things happen rarely works. The levels of attention you get as a tourist can be overwhelming at first, but they are as nothing compared to the attention I draw as a cyclist, so I enjoy the relative anonymity of being a tourist in Delhi. Not to mention that a lot of people seem amused at the tourists wandering in their midst. Unlike Agra, where it felt as though everyone is grasping for the tourist dollar, Delhi has a sense of purpose, of a country testing its muscles. India's the future, and you can see that growth and the push of modernity here.<br /><br />I like the mix of modern, ancient and British Empire buildings which you get while wandering around, mixed in with typically Indian scenes such as the rows of cycle rickshaws and tiny shops selling only bearings, or fireworks, or chewing tobacco and cigarettes. The contrast between the riches and the poverty of some people is appalling, though. You can see beggars and street kids asking for food and handouts outside shops selling iPads for many more rupees than your average waiter gets in a year.<br /><br />My sister Anita has flown out to meet me here in Delhi, which has given me some time off the bike, a chance to stay in some pleasant hotels (which she paid for) and do some properly touristy things (which she paid for) and show her around places I'd already been, especially Delhi. She thought I was testing her by taking her to Old Delhi on her first day, and maybe I was, a little, but it's the most typically Indian place you can get to, and despite the scrum of people and the crazy traffic, it's a very safe place. Chandni Chowk even has a Mcdonald's, with handcarts and rickshaws and cows pulling bales of cloth going past. It's hardly downtown Bogota.<br /><br />I did experience some of the Delhi frustration when I tried to fix my bike, as the mechanic's I took it to actually tightened the bolt, which was the complete opposite of what I'd asked them to do. Having worsened the problem, they then refused to help and sent me up to the cycle market, which I hoped would be a nest of little workshops and spare parts, but instead it was an emporium of kids' bikes, and a couple of rickshaw workshops. One guy said he didn't have the tools, until I pointed out that he had a socket spanner right next to him. The only help I got was one affable chap who said it isn't a part you can get in India. Someone did this in India, said I. He said that they wouldn't have the tools there - he reckoned I'd be best off going to Chandni Chowk or Kashmere Gate in Old Delhi and getting my own tools. To be honest I prefer to do these jobs myself after my experiences of letting other people at my bike, so that's what I did once Anita had left, as I didn't want to waste our time in fixing my bike. I hated the feeling of being in limbo, and I had hoped that the gear Anita brought would fix it, but despite my speaking on the phone to the guy at Halford's, he still contrived to send different parts to the ones I'd asked for. It was a strangely Indian experience, in that I thought I was saying one thing, but he heard another. Still, it's now fixed, even if it's not to my compete satisfaction, and I'll be carrying an extra kilo of tools and spares with me into the mountains when I leave.<br /><br />Anita enjoyed Delhi, I think. As well as Old Delhi and the Jami Masjid Mosque and Red Fort, we went for a walk around the wide boulevards of New Delhi, which was amazingly quiet on a Sunday, at least until we got to India Gate, the war memorial built by the British to commemorate the Indian dead of World War I. I had been there previously with Jonathan, when the whole area was fenced off for the Republic Day celebrations, and to be honest I thought it was better then, as there were armed soldiers to scare off the scamsters.<br /><br />Connaught Place has a bad reputation for the amount of hassle you get as a tourist, but at least there you only get people telling you things you already know, such as This Is C! Block C! Saying that, we did get hounded by a few juvenile pen salesmen and there's one guy there who keeps offering to clean my ears.<br /><br />But at least you don't get people grabbing your hands and painting you there, which happened to Anita at India Gate. I thought she'd agreed to it, so I didn't say anything, but I did snarl a bit when they tried to start on me. Anita had both hands henna'd and they also flogged her an awful bit of jewellery. The family of harridans then tried to charge her 1500 rupees. We argued and gave them 200 in the end. Then a small boy followed me around, trying to sell me some tat, then trying to drop it into my pocket when I was photographing the arch, then feigning injury to get money out of me. Needless to say, he got nowt except a lesson in picking his marks better. It was much better when it was fenced off and lined with soldiers.<br /><br />It was worse than Old Delhi - I took Anita along Chandni Chowk and through the Spice Bazaar, where we got hardly any hassle, apart from when I stopped to check the map and some mad old bleeder came up and said "this is Lahori Gate", which I knew as it was in big letters above the gate. Later on, he was standing next to one of the spice stalls and said "this is spice market" when we walked past. He probably goes on holiday to Trafalgar Square and stands under Nelson's Column telling people "this is England".<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7026396763/" title="Anita in Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7079/7026396763_c475981381_z.jpg" alt="Anita in Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />On our last day in India, I took Anita to the Sikh temple, Bangla Sahib, which I've now visited three times. It's quite unlike other temples I'd visited in India, such as Jama Masjid, where entrance is theoretically free, but they charge you 200 rupees for a camera, then another 100 to go up to the minaret, then another fee to wear a shame robe if you're showing too much skin, and where I had Jonathan and I thrown out when I refused to pay the camera fee, or the beautiful Lotus Temple, where it felt as though we were being fed into a factory assembly line. Entrance is free, there's a tourist office where friendly Sikhs explain that you need to cover your hair and not to speak inside the temple, but otherwise you can wander about at will, and the lack of rules and restrictions is not only welcoming, it encourages people to show respect. I really like the place, for the beauty of the temple and the pool, the warm welcome (entry is open to everybody, and food is given out freely to anybody), and the freedom to sit in peace without, for example, having somebody blow a whistle at you for sitting too long (which happened to Jonathan and I at the Taj Mahal). Anita really enjoyed it too. Amongst the bustle of Delhi, it has a remarkable tranquility, atmospheric music pours out of the temple twenty four hours a day, and the Sikhs are keen to give a good impression of their religion, or way of life.<br /><br />It made a fine ending to Anita's holiday in India. In some ways it had been a hectic week, with some long days of travelling, but we'd planned an itinerary which had enough flexibility to allow for things to go wrong, which can happen in India. The two things she wanted to do were the elephant ride at Amber Fort in Jaipur, and the mountain railway up to Shimla. I think Jonathan and I comprehensively put her off the Taj Mahal and Agra, and I thought that she'd have been doing it because that's what people expect you to do in India, rather than because she really wanted to see it for herself.<br /><br />The drive down to Jaipur was...challenging. I only agreed to brave my car sickness as I knew that road from having cycled it, so I knew that it was a clear run on a three lane highway for most of the route, but the driver wasn't the best. Anita complained to the hotel about him, as he consistently drove too close to cars in front, had no sense of anticipation, became competitive with other traffic and in one town he actually steered towards a young lad who was trying to cross the road. He collared me in the street afterwards, as Anita's complaint had cost him business, but I simply told him that it was his own fault. We had tried to tell him to back off on umpteen occasions, but at best he didn't listen, and at worst he ignored us and tried to convince us that he was a really good driver, as he sailed between two wagons with a yard's clearance to either side. He wasn't as bad as some of the clowns out here, but he didn't comprehend how uncomfortable his driving made us.<br /><br />The hotel in Jaipur was lovely, and Anita and I went for a walk around the decaying Pink City, and for sunset we had a beer at Tiger Fort, high above the city with no one else around. It was straight out of the guide books and it was great.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7026416689/" title="sunset at Nargalah Fort, Jaipur by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7265/7026416689_ea66856b50_z.jpg" alt="sunset at Nargalah Fort, Jaipur" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />In the morning, the elephant ride up to Amber Fort was another tourist trap, but I felt that it made it more special, to troop through the huge gateways up to the fort with sixty other elephants. We had a very frisky ride - the mahout said that she was only young, and enthusiastic, and full of energy, and we were overtaking other elephants up to the fort.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7026438697/" title="elephant ride to Amber Fort, Jaipur by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7106/7026438697_891a548eca_z.jpg" alt="elephant ride to Amber Fort, Jaipur" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />I liked that mahout - he was surly, and quiet. Unlike our tour guide, who I would have fired if I'd been on my own, but Anita was paying attention so I held my tongue. He didn't like that, though - while he was wittering on about the fine jewelwork or something, I was staring out over the battlements to the other fort on top of the hill and trying to imagine myself back amongst the Maharajahs, and what it would have been like, as I try to do, and he interrupted my reverie to ask "aren't you interested in the fort?" He was deeply offended that I wasn't paying him much attention. He went and spoke to other tour guides as well - I can imagine him complaining about me. "Did you tell him about the textiles? And the painting in plaster? And did you tell your Bollywood joke?" "I've tried everything, man. He's just not interested."<br /><br />There were some interesting tidbits in there, but mostly it was tedious, and I was looking at the other tour guides, and they were giving the exact same spiel, made them take the exact same photos and so on. I like the sense that I'm discovering a place for myself, which is quite egotistical and probably delusional, but I prefer to wander around and look at stuff rather than be shepherded around, to watch other people and stare out into space, rather than listen to a dull lecture on the riches of the palaces and the beauty of the wives. I said to Anita, it was all built on the blood of the workers. He wouldn't let us stop and take our time, he was always chivvying us along and asking us what we planned to do afterwards - because he was very keen to get us to go to the local jewel factory and the textile works and reap himself a fat profit. I took great delight in going slowly, letting Anita buy tat from the many (many many) tat sellers around the fort and having a leisurely toilet stop. It wasn't even as if he was very enthusiastic about the place - it was so perfunctory.<br /><br />But these are all the experiences that make up India. It's not like going to Bognor Regis. Can you imagine, if you grabbed a taxi at Heathrow or Newcastle airport and asked to be taken to such-and-such hotel, but they told you they knew a much nicer one, and anyway that hotel's dirty, or it's burnt down. We didn't go to the jewel workshop, or the textile factory with Surinder. Driving back to Delhi was quite enough of an experience.<br /><br />The other trip we'd organised was by train, and the Indian railways are amazing. They're slow by western standards, but every train we caught was within five minutes of the timetable. The trip up to Shimla wasn't without its quirks, however. I was full of cold and getting up at 4.30 am to catch the train from Sara Rohilla station wouldn't have put me in a good mood at the best of times. Since we weren't able to book the mountain railway from Kalka to Shimla, we had to try and get a bus, but the buses were shonky local buses and I felt ill at the mere thought of spending four hours on one of those up a twisty mountain road. I negotiated a taxi driver, which was much more civilised, even if the driver was a bit weird. He stopped to get fags, and took his hands off the steering wheel each time we passed a temple to put them together and bow his head in prayer. He also stopped halfway up to have lunch, then vanished. But he was a pretty good driver, cautious and slow, and on that road (we passed one accident where a wagon had sideswiped a scooter), safe and slow was fine by me. It took about four hours to get the 90 km to Shimla.<br /><br />Shimla has a central drag, the Mall, which was laid down by the British when it was the summer capital of the Raj. Indians were banned from it at the time - now, cars and autos and motorised transport are banned from it (ish - you still get official vehicles and those with special permits), so we had to walk. I was knackered and a bit ill. I was falling asleep in the car, but the mad old sod wouldn't let me sleep. I've no idea why - he spoke hardly any English. And I was carrying a huge rucksack with our stuff for three days in Shimla.<br /><br />We did have a hotel booked, as Anita's partner Ian had found a youth hostel in Shimla on the internet, and as Anita is a member of the YHA, likes youth hostels and was curious to see what an Indian YHA would be like, she'd booked us a family room (with a view) there. It was up on The Ridge. The clue's in the name - off we went tramping uphill. We asked at the tourist information (more on which later), and they'd never heard of it. They told us to check this hotel further up. We got so far, and gave them a ring, and they sent a tall Kashmiri-looking bloke down to guide us back. I only thought he was Kashmiri cos he had blue eyes and the air of mountains about him.<br /><br />He was alright, but this place wasn't no youth hostel. I'd be amazed if Hostelling International were aware of its existence. It was a seedy ratbag budget hotel masquerading as a youth hostel. The guy at reception looked like an extra from Taxi Driver. We did go to see the room, way up on the top floor, but this weren't no family room and there weren't no view. It was dark and musty with a narrow, filthy double bed, and there wasn't even a shower. I thought Anita was going to have a breakdown there. She said it was the sort of room you only see when the blindfold comes off and Abdul peels back a blanket to reveal his tray of torture implements.<br /><br />So, we trooped back down the hill. I was knackered and ill and frankly a bit useless. I was complaining a bit. We went back to the tourist information and asked for their advice on a nice hotel, nearby, with a view, for around 2,000 rupees.<br /><br />No problem. The Holiday Home has all of that. And it's only ten minutes' walk. They booked us in, and Anita paid.<br /><br />They gave us directions. This place really wasn't ten minutes away. It took us fifteen minutes just to get to the lift down from the Mall, then we had to walk for another fifteen minutes along this narrow road, with traffic, without any clear idea where we were going.<br /><br />We did eventually get to the Horrible Home, though. The room was musty and carpeted, and you didn't really want to touch anything. It was really small, there wasn't a kettle so I had to break out my stove for coffee, and there was a marvellous view of the car park. If you craned your neck you could see a few mountains, and the sunset. Anita found it quite loud as well - some Indian kids were running out and back, banging doors. Someone turned up to change the sheets...for a different room. In the morning, I went down to reception to try to get some mineral water, but they asked me my room number. I said no, give it to me, cos Anita was asleep and I didn't want to wake her. She'd found the day very trying, shit hotel after shit hotel, Shimla not being what she'd hoped, and being bullshitted all the time. No water, though. I gave up, and went for a walk to try and find some, but this place was in the middle of nowhere, so I came back and got some from the restaurant, where the All Indian Surliness Champion (four years out of five) charged me 40 rupees! I pointed at the side of the bottle, where a maximum retail price of 15 rupees was printed, but he wasn't having it. We had breakfast there later, and the same guy took our order. Or so we thought. I never did get my juice. Wait, I did, but since it arrived ten minutes before anything else, I consider that to be part of a different meal. We had to call him back to the table for everything - he brought hot milk instead of cold milk for the cornflakes, hash browns instead of an omelette, and the tea and coffee only came when we'd finished everything else. At the end, he even refused to take the 500-rupee note cos it had a tear in it. He's going to clear the boards at this year's championships. After the breakfast farrago, they actually clagged somebody else's breakfast bill onto our room. Tried to, anyway.<br /><br />The place was unbelievably overpriced. I did work out why the tourist information sent us there. Turns out, it's also owned by Himachal Pradesh Tourism Development Corporation. Mild conflict of interest there.<br /><br />We left as soon as we could, and our first port of call was the tourist information, where I registered my complaint, for all the good it'll do. The hotel had the cheek to claim they'd given us the best view in the hotel. I was amused to note that the previous complaint was from someone who went on one of their tours, which was mainly a tour of hotels owned by HPTDC.<br /><br />We'd checked the guide book, which suggested a couple of places behind the Ridge. The day before, we'd batted off touts, telling them that we had a hotel. Hah. We ended up at Hotel Dreamland, which was basic but clean and pleasant, with generally clued-up staff, and we were much happier once we'd settled in there. There was one woman who was really enthusiastic about Shimla and the walks around there.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/7023179993/" title="Christ Church and the state library, Shimla by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7278/7023179993_81e590ca2f_z.jpg" alt="Christ Church and the state library, Shimla" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />I liked Shimla. It had loads of downbeat charm and I really enjoyed seeing British-style buildings in such an odd setting. Anita said it reminded her of Torquay, or Scarborough. It was cleaner and quieter than anywhere else I've been in India. One guy, Anil, said that it wasn't like anywhere else in India. We walked up to the monkey temple, which swarmed with monkeys. They nicked one girl's scarf and the lass had to feed the monkeys peanuts to get it back. We'd been forewarned and had hired sticks. It's the highest point in Shimla at the top of Jakhu Hill, but it was too hazy to see the distant snow-capped high Himalayas. We also had a walk up to Chadwick Falls, a lovely spot apart from the litter.<br /><br />And the hill railway back from Shimla was incredible. At first, it felt a bit cramped as I was banging knees with the guy opposite and the train was full of kids making a right racket, and the family next to us made such a palaver of taking their seats. But everything changed once the train got going. We got talking to people and it was easy to move around, and it's such an astonishing journey that I forgot about minor discomforts. Mountains everywhere. I loved leaning out of the door and watching the mountains proceed past, and looking at the train taking the curves. Lots of curves, at some points the train was switchbacking on itself down the mountains, and loads of bridges and tunnels. 102 tunnels, I think, and something preposterous like 888 bridges. It's an amazing feat of engineering, and as a World Heritage Site it's about a million times better than the Taj Mahal.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6880402750/" title="bridge on the Shimla-Kalka railway by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7132/6880402750_2b8104678f_z.jpg" alt="bridge on the Shimla-Kalka railway" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6880402736/" title="views from the Shimla-Kalka railway by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7076/6880402736_8e10a3250c_z.jpg" alt="views from the Shimla-Kalka railway" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />It was like a holiday for me, to have my sister here and take trips which would have been difficult for me, with my bike. And it was interesting to see places through my sister's eyes. Reading this back, it sounds as though I may have become slightly irritated at times, and not having fixed my bike was preying on my mind more than I admitted, but India is like that - infuriating one moment and brilliant the next. Now my bike is fixed, so I've been wandering out and about to do some last minute jobs before I leave, and I've been able to look into all the little shops without wondering if my magic fix lay in there. The holiday's over now, and it's back to cycling. It's like an even better holiday!Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-8913236667301140012012-03-16T06:54:00.008-07:002012-03-30T07:58:15.916-07:00Spring into the HimalayasI always imagined that my trip, my grand adventure, would be a silvery ribbon of pure cycling across the globe, unbroken except where seas and oceans have to be crossed. I'd ride triumphantly to Australia in time for the solar eclipse in November 2012.<br />
<br />
I've made two mistakes which broke this thread: I decided to come to India, and I didn't get a visa for Pakistan while I was in the UK.<br />
<br />
I had read about the difficulties of getting a Pakistan visa (they're only issued to residents, without exception, as the officials at the Pakistan High Commission in Delhi have reiterated to me despite my protests and carefully-worded letter to the High Commissioner, which confirms what I was told in Istanbul and Dubai), but I trusted to the road and my optimism, chose to believe second- and third-hand reports of travellers being given visas in dusty foreign embassies.<br />
<br />
India, likewise, is a notorious cul-de-sac for overland travellers. Nico, the French cyclist riding home from Japan, winced when I said I was coming here, as it's "impossible to get into, and impossible to leave". So it has proved.<br />
<br />
The overland routes out of India are as follows:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bangladesh</span>. Easy entry, but the only other land border is with Myanmar/Burma, and no border crossings are open to foreigners.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Myanmar/Burma</span>. Border crossings are open to foreigners, but travel is only then permitted within 10 km of the border, and you're obliged to leave at the same border by which you entered, which prohibits transiting the country. Also, the Northeastern Hill States of India such as Manipur and Nagaland have an unsavoury reputation for lawlessness and banditry. Special permits from the Indian government are required to travel there, and independent travel is difficult.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">China</span>. No land borders are open to foreigners, unsurprisingly. A couple of the high Himalayan passes are open to local herders, but I doubt I could pass for a Tibetan in any light.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Pakistan</span>. One land border is open at Wagah, between Amritsar and Lahore in divided Punjab, where the changing of the guards and lowering of the flags takes place every day at sunset. Without a Pakistan visa, though, this is closed to me.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bhutan</span>. Easy to enter from India, but although the mountain kingdom shares a border with China/Tibet, no crossings are open to foreigners.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Nepal</span>. This may be my only opion, as it is very easy to enter from India, and there is an official crossing into China/Tibet where foreigners may enter, on the Friendship Highway between Kathmandu and Lhasa. However, as independent travel in Tibet is prohibited by the Chinese authorities, you are officially required to travel with a tour guide. As a cyclist, this is possible, but I'd have to hire a man-with-a-van to trail me around, or tag along with another group of cyclists to share the cost, but I would either be shelling out my meagre funds, or letting myself be tied into somebody else's itinerary. Finally, onward travel from Tibet into China appears to be impossible. There are plenty of tales of travellers who have travelled independently from China into Tibet, then into Nepal, but going the other way (as I would be) seems highly unlikely.<br />
<br />
So political reality interferes with my cycling adventure. I feel childishly resentful about this.<br />
<br />
I've already broken my duck and taken one flight from Dubai to get into India. I don't regret it. I was aware that I was laying a trap for myself, but India has been intoxicating and infuriating and glorious, I've had experiences I couldn't have had anywhere else, spending the night with a family of ganga farmers, trading insults with stoned tuk-tuk drivers, fixing my bike with nothing but my own ingenuity, then entertaining village kids while the local hammer swinger performed percussive repairs on my bike, or watching the moon rise and blot out the endless stars while camping in the desert.<br />
<br />
If I was to take a flight out of here, it would be a temptation to return to Iran and pick up the thread of my original route, treating India as a side trip and pretending that I'd cycled it all, but I know this is one breakage that I can't repair on the road.<br />
<br />
So I return to the beginning, to my reasons for going a-wandering. My friend David had, when I was a kid, travelled all over India and returned with stories and sketches and paintings which inspired me to see it, one day. I also wanted to travel by bicycle, which is such a natural, satisfying way to travel, and saves the hassles of other forms of transport. Finally, I wanted to see mountains, like Bilbo Baggins.<br />
<br />
Without a Pakistan visa, where I could cycle over the Karakoram Highway and into China at the world's highest border crossing, then over the Pamir Ranges in bleak, beautiful Tajikistan, I could fly out to Uzbekistan, where Alexander the Great once trod, and follow the ancient Silk Road through Tashkent and Samarkand. The route to Australia would then take me over the snow-capped Pamirs and into the green valleys of Kyrgyzstan, through the remote provinces of China and down to South East Asia.<br />
<br />
But Australia, to me, was only ever a destination. It was the places on the route which inspired me. It was easy, to say "I'm going to Australia" to people at home in the UK, as Australia is a tropical dreamland of sunshine and beaches and beer. If I'd said I was going to Tajikistan, people would have needed a map.<br />
<br />
It's the mountains that I want to experience, the changing vistas of peaks and valleys, hauling myself and my luggage up colossal passes, gasping for air at the top and being rewarded with the freefalling descent at the other side. A question has been asked of me a few times, "where was your favourite place?" and one answer is obvious - the best cycling was eastern Turkey in early winter, with its sterile, frozen summits and skies of infinite blue.<br />
<br />
So the answer to my current dilemma is also obvious. I've trapped myself in India, so I'll stay in India. There are mountains here in India, after all. My visa expires on 28th April, and before that I'll go to Nepal (which, I hear, also has mountains) and explore its mix of ancient cultures and modern adventurers. I can also renew my Indian visa while in Nepal, and return to India to roam the distant valleys by the Tibetan border, and ride the famous Manali-Leh highway when it opens in early summer. Security permitting, I may also ride to ill-fated, divided Kashmir, which is as close as I seem likely to get to Pakistan.<br />
<br />
I am simply putting off the problem, but it seems that I now have six months in India and Nepal to ponder it. I'll call in at Corbett National Park and go tiger-spotting on my way to Nepal, and in Nepal I might just visit Everest base camp. By bicycle, naturally. I hope my non-cycling adventures are over.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6882823880/" title="Map of My Journey by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6211/6882823880_db01584c74_b.jpg" alt="Map of My Journey" width="1024" height="696" /></a>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-91186467584916262952012-03-15T02:31:00.007-07:002012-03-15T04:31:13.529-07:00The Miracle of Jahanabad-Panditkapura Kunda-Pratapgarh<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6838250156/" title="Airlie Beach 002 by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><span ><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7055/6838250156_ded91577b0_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="Airlie Beach 002" /></span></a><div><span><span ><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span >I hopped a train back from Kanpur to Delhi in the end, which was only disappointing to me because I'd put in so much effort to keep my bike running. It was my body which let me down, or rather my carelessness with the local water, but as I leaned out of the carriage full of Indian Communists on their way to Delhi for the People's March to Parliament (we discussed the UK riots, and I tried to sing the Red Flag as they didn't know it), I watched the flat plains of the Ganga roll by, and reminded myself that I was only missing the flat, easy, dull riding back to Delhi.</span></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >So don't think that catching a train was the easy option. Carrying a bike on a train in the UK, where the network has been fragmented amongst umpteen different operators, each of whom has a different policy, is a simple matter by comparison with India's ludicrous administration. I was at Kanpur Central for eight hours before I and my bike boarded a train, most of which time was taken up with cajoling, negotiation, explanation, firmness and eventually narkiness to ensure that I travelled on the same train as my bicycle. Even so, I came within five minutes of boarding the wrong train. And when we did arrive into Delhi at 1.30 am as a huge storm was threatening, and forked lightning split the sky, instead of scarpering before it hit, I was led off to an administration compound where I had to provide several proofs of the ownership of my bike before I could take possession of it back from the custody of the Indian Railway Authority. I hung around under the corrugated iron shelter as the rain hammered down and the thunder raged, watching street dogs mock-fighting until the storm subsided.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><div><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="" height="" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=109786" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000"><span > <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=&photo_id=6984325551"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=109786"> <param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"> <param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=109786" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=&photo_id=6984325551" height="" width=""></embed></span></object></div></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >It had started so well. I'd hoped to ride the 800 km from Varanasi to Delhi in four or five days, to be back in time to arrange visas for the next stage of my journey, and to meet my sister who's flying from the UK to meet me in Delhi. I had an early start, winding my way out of the shit-strewn alleys by the Ganga and stepping aside respectfully for a funeral procession going to the burning ghats (though nobody else did). </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I'd ridden over 100 miles into a persistent headwind when I was on the Allahabad bypass, a deserted stretch of highway circling the congested city. There were few facilities or villages, and I was having to take water from public pumps and treat it with chlorine tablets before I could drink it. I was about to cross the Ganga and get to the more populous section of the highway before nightfall.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Then my crank fell off.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I couldn't find the bolt in the roadside debris, but it would have been pointless anyway, as I'd neglected to pick up my 8mm allen key in Dubai. I pedalled on, one-legged and cursing.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I tried to beg water or an 8 mm allen key from passers-by. All knowledge of Hindi deserted me, and I became intensely frustrated that I'd stop someone to ask for water, they'd stop, become curious, and I'd explain the problem, but they could never help with water, or tools. Meanwhile, the sun was setting, I had nowhere to stay, no water to drink or to camp with, and one-legged cycling wasn't getting me anywhere fast.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I knocked at a house, which was full of women. They panicked at my arrival - various expressions of outrage, confusion, amusement and fear flickered across their faces. I made my apologies and returned to the road.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >At the next village, I called up to a woman on a rooftop to ask for water, or if there was a pump in the village. "Wait there," she said. I waited obediently. She returned with nothing. Nothing.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Becoming increasingly frantic, I asked the next group for water, or a pump, but I couldn't make myself understood. They gathered around my bike, looking at the gears and other bits, and I lost my temper. Instead of people who'd try to help with my urgent problems, I'd found a pack of loafers who just wanted a nose at something new. I walked away, ranting about water.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Nearly in tears, I asked at the last house in the village, where a grandson and grandfather were sitting outside taking the evening air. This time, and at last, they understood me. The loafers had followed me, and paid close attention as I explained the problem, and clutched my water to me.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >The grandad, who had mesmerising bushy black hair sticking out of his ears, sent me down to the other end of the village with my bicycle. Naturally the whole village came out to see. There was a guy with a bagful of ancient bicycle parts, and we tried to find a suitable bolt.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I left them to it. I sat on the step and played with the village kids for a while. I tried to stop them putting in a bolt which nearly fitted, but the thread wasn't fine enough and it was going to ruin the threads inside the bottom bracket, if it fitted at all. They assured me that they could fix it, and since I was fucked either way, I let them get on with it. Use of a hammer was involved, which was more ultra-violence than I'd have been prepared to use on my bike.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6838227378/" title="bike fettling in Jahanabad by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><span ><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7039/6838227378_fc07817d69_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="bike fettling in Jahanabad" /></span></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >The whole village was there, and the scene was lit by the full moon. An angry man had taken charge of affairs, and when he declared that it was fixed, everybody cheered. I let him have a go on it around the village, and tried to give the guy with the bagful of bits some money for his trouble. He smiled and refused. "This is India," he said, "we won't take anything."</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6838227384/" title="cheering in Jahanabad by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><span ><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7056/6838227384_9c0f72484e_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="cheering in Jahanabad" /></span></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Even better, the head honcho was offering me back for tea, and a bed. As we went back through the village, the angry man demanded a labour charge, so I slipped him 10 rupees with a smile and a handshake. This is India, alright.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >That night, under the shelter of the huge Tripathi family, was wonderful. They did ask me a few questions which put me on edge a bit such as "are you alone?" and "do you carry Indian or foreign currency?", but that's pretty common in India. They did seem very insistent on telling me how safe I was in the bleak, lightless shed which was to be my abode, but somebody explained that they'd recently been burgled by robbers from the riverbank, so their concerns were understandable. I was never worried: the atmosphere was warm and convivial, I was fed, and entertained, and... well, the feeding was fabulous. A bowl of dhal, a bowl of paneer, a bowl of something else which didn't last long enough to be identified, half a dozen chapatis, a plate of rice and another bowl of paneer. They were an enormous family, and I believe I met them all, apart from the women. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >They even mocked me gently for my ranty behaviour when I'd arrived at the village. One youth who spoke excellent English told me "you will meet many challenges on your journey, and you must bear an open heart". I smiled and said "you have no idea." Turns out, he always spoke like the Little Book of Indian Koans. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >The name of the village was one thing I tried to establish: someone said Jahanabad, someone else said Kunda-Pratapgarh. And someone else said Jahanabad-Panditkapura Kunda-Pratapgarh. I never quite got to the bottom of it, but I think there are two villages side by side. I asked if it was like the Sharks and the Jets, but no one got the reference.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I was tired, though, and they left me to my sleep, which was as the sleep of the dead.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >In the morning, I felt quite despondent as I expected the crank to last 5 or 6 miles before falling off again. I wandered through the village and took more photos and played with the family cows before they told me I should get going and continue my journey.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6838227400/" title="me and the Tripathi family cow by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><span ><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7187/6838227400_74c2e8dcd4_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="me and the Tripathi family cow" /></span></a></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6838227390/" title="some of the Tripathi family by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><span ><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7195/6838227390_d01e8d291c_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="some of the Tripathi family" /></span></a></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Fatehpur was 50 miles away, I hoped to get there and get a train back to Delhi. But, miracle of miracles, the fix held. The angry man must have Igored the thing on with all of his strength. It even lasted the 100 miles to Kanpur, and I was fantasising about being able to ride all the way back to Delhi. As the crank has since come loose again while riding around Delhi, I was probably right to get to the train, but it was the water which I so carelessly drank in Jahanabad-Panditkapura Kunda-Pratapgarh which did for me. I couldn't keep anything down (or up) for the two days I was in Kanpur. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I've said before that things going wrong can be the best thing to happen. I'd have never met the Tripathis or been to their village if my crank hadn't fallen off. Even now, when I still can't find a suitable repair in Delhi, I'm not sure that it wasn't the best thing to happen in India.</span></div></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >The story has quite a punchline, as well. I'd asked what they all did for a living. "Agriculture," they said. Crops? "Yes, crops."</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >In the morning, one of them asked if I smoked ganga. Not quite sure where this was going, I said no.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >"We are ganga farmers," he said proudly.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >And rightly enough, out the back, there were fields of the stuff.</span></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-51213186756109714762012-03-08T08:09:00.004-08:002012-03-08T09:19:40.150-08:00Varanasi<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6963752463/" title="I'm blue by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7064/6963752463_86575e9319_z.jpg" alt="I'm blue" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />Two things drew me to Varanasi. It's most famous for the burning ghats by the Ganga, where corpses are first bathed in the holy waters, then set aflame. Second, I wanted to see Holi, the festival of colours, which is a riotous celebration of spring.<br /><br />OK, three things. I also wanted a few days off to rest up before getting back to Delhi to apply for visas. Felix had told me that Varanasi is an interesting place, as had Teddy in Rishikesh, both of whom mentioned the rivers of shit. they weren't wrong. It's quite the most pungent place I've ever been. My guest house is in the maze of narrow alleys which line the waterfront by the ghats (baths), alleys along which cows wander freely, and raw sewage runs down to the river. These photos really should be scratch n sniff, to get the full experience.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6817619524/" title="lanes in Varanasi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7069/6817619524_027b43d35b_z.jpg" alt="lanes in Varanasi" width="480" height="640" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6817619542/" title="the Ganga riverfront, Varanasi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7177/6817619542_82d5203fd9_z.jpg" alt="the Ganga riverfront, Varanasi" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />Obviously, since I spent two days fixing my bike, that kiboshed some of my plans, but Arnaud and I took the walking tour yesterday, and went down to the ghats to see the burnings. I had seen one of the biers being taken through the alleys when I first arrived in Varanasi. It was a colourful procession, and the body was wrapped in rich red robes, and I thought "ooh, that looks pretty," until I realised what it was.<br /><br />The ghat and the surroundings are piled high with wood for the burnings, which is so expensive that many families struggle to afford it, and a common scam is to grab a tourist and tell them that they can take photos, then make a fuss and demand that they pay for the wood. Photography is completely forbidden, but we saw people with camera phones, video cameras, and even a tourist who'd made a half-baked attempt to disguise her camera by wrapping it in an orange plastic bag. It's an extremely public event, and even watching felt a bit ghoulish, so I wasn't keen on taking photos, especially if I'd end up paying for it.<br /><br />The bodies are first dipped in the river, then laid down at the burning site, where a priest blesses it, and sets it aflame. This is the end of the ceremonial part. The bodies burn in public in front of huge crowds, and to make sure they all burn, workmen throw kindling onto the biers and use huge sticks to crack open the ribcages and feed the flames. As the flames grow, the wrappings burn first, revealing blackened flesh, which shrivels away from the skull and bones in the open air. There is no privacy or distance allowed. It's quite different from a cremation in the UK, where grandad's coffin vanishes behind a metal plate and you get an urn at the other end.<br /><br />Arnaud and I stood on a balcony overlooking the burning site. We were downwind of the smoke, and I remembered Teddy's comment that he came away shaking, when it struck him that he was breathing in dead people. It was an intense atmosphere of burning wood and charred flesh. The heat was incredible, even at that distance. We could hear flesh popping and bones cracking under the pressure.<br /><br />I came back to the guest house, and as I was sitting drinking my coffee, I noticed the stench. My clothes still reeked, the heady aroma of barbecued flesh.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6963766591/" title="Holi by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7196/6963766591_1d9323397d_z.jpg" alt="Holi" width="640" height="480" /></a><br /><br />And today was Holi! It's a riotous event marked by lots of drinking, bacchanalia and the chucking about of coloured dye. The guest house wouldn't let women go out into the streets, as the celebrations can go over the top, and they only let us out when we assured them that we didn't have our wallets or cameras or any valuables on us.<br /><br />Even walking up the alley from the guest house, we were soon sopping wet and colourful as dye and water were being thrown from the balconies and rooftops around us. We got in a water pistol fight with some local kids, and a guy ran out of a doorway and tore the t-shirt off my back. It was hilarious. Again, there was no privacy or escape from it: if you were on the street, you were a target. A kid on a motorbike ducked his head and shouted "No Holi! No Holi!" but we paid no attention.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6964094251/" title="guy on the balcony, looking for prey by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7190/6964094251_8ab532f605_z.jpg" alt="guy on the balcony, looking for prey" width="640" height="291" /></a><br /><br />We decided we didn't really want to go into the main town, where things do get very rowdy indeed, and finding your way in and out of these alleys is tricky at the best of times, let alone while under fire. We decamped to the guest house, and joined the crowd on the rooftop, flinging about yet more coloured dye, covering the street below and engaging in battles with the kids on the next rooftop.<br /><br />The two events, wildly different in character, both have the same traits which make India such a culture shock when you come from the West. The public nature of the celebrations and commemorations is difficult to appreciate, and what would be ghoulish or inappropriate in the UK is everyday here.<br /><br />One tourist on the rooftop got very annoyed when the waiter covered him in orange dye, but if you get involved in it, you have to accept it for what it is, you can't impose another set of values on it.<br /><br />Of course, another similarity is that I had to go and get a shower to wash all the dye off - it's stubborn stuff. I'm going to go and get my third shower of the day.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/sets/72157629538303511/">photos from Holi</a>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-78793125131171421992012-03-07T11:00:00.002-08:002012-03-08T05:30:26.258-08:00Fixed and Working Again<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6817619516/" title="tooling by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7191/6817619516_e1cdbcb806_z.jpg" alt="tooling" width="480" height="640" /></a><br /><br />"You're a mechanic!" said the guy in the street.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I suppose I am. As a kid, I was always quite cack-handed and mechanically inept. Toys would break when I played with them, and in Technology class the bookshelf I tried to build became more of a book cubby, as the saw tended to go north, south, east and west in my grip.<br /><br />But I love bikes, and the simplicity of their mechanics. After an incident where a bike shop sold me a rear wheel as a front wheel, then charged me again to put it right, I decided that I should know more than just how to repair a puncture. I took apart and re-built an old bike in the back yard, and since then I've built all my own bikes, serviced them, cared for them, and set them up myself.<br /><br />The bike I have on this trip, I know from top to bottom. I could probably recite its components from memory, and I had a Masterplan that it would be simple, reliable, easily repairable. At least this has given me one point of stability when I'm otherwise moving from place to place, staying day or two before moving on. The bike is my home, the trusty workhorse which I can get on and pedal all day.<br /><br />India has changed that. Two shredded tyres and punctures on a daily basis has given me a snese of dread when I check the tyres, expecting to find a flat. Suddenly the solid foundations are shifting and I don't feel that I can rely on the bike to function. That guy on the motorbike snapped off my rear pannier and I've periodically had to re-attach it. And yesterday my rear skewer snapped. This is such a small part, but it's fundamental to the functioning of the bike; without it, the bike's unridable. And a bike which can't be ridden isn't anything except a millstone, dead weight.<br /><br />I spent yesterday trying to find a replacement or some sort of bodge, but it's not a part that's widely available in India. I was told that I could only get one in Delhi (800 km away) or Kolkata/Calcutta (700 km).<br /><br />I knew I could replace the rear axle with one of the solid axles which are standard in India. I bought an axle for 20 rupees, and a spanner for 25 rupees. Arriving back at the guest house, I tried to take out the old one, but the spanner was too wide. I simply couldn't do the job with the tools available.<br /><br />I was in limbo - I knew I could fix the problem with the right tools or the right parts, but neither of those could be had in Varanasi. Not to mention that this was sucking away my time to see Varanasi and enjoy the Holi festival.<br /><br />I slept on the problem, somewhat. My neighbour's snoring kept me awake - it was so violent that I thought he might be in trouble. I only fell asleep to the sound of bells as people walked down to the holy Ganga to bathe at dawn.<br /><br />This morning, I went back to the bike shops to see what I could get, and this time I took the wheel so I could demonstrate the problem. I didn't expect to find a replacement skewer, but I hoped that one of the bike shops would have a suitable tool, or at worst I'd be able to buy a new wheel, even if I had to strap my old wheel onto the back of my bike for the ride back to Delhi. I hoped it was a matter of saying the right words to the right person, but I couldn't find that person, or those words.<br /><br />The first bike shop didn't have a thin enough spanner, or a spare wheel. There are, it turns out, no spare wheels to be had in Varanasi. They suggested I try the hardware shop around the corner.<br /><br />At the hardware shop, they didn't have a thin enough spanner, or any tools to thin down the spanner I had, but they did sell angle grinders. I asked about them, thinking that I could use one on my spanner, as there's a guy next to the guest house with a little workshop and a big vice I could use, but 2000 rupees was too expensive for a one-time job.<br /><br />I bounced from bike shops to machine shops and even a scale shop, where the proprietor was helpfulness itself, until he produced an allen key and tried to turn it in the hollow where the skewer goes. No, I told him with a patient smile, it doesn't work like that.<br /><br />I met disinterest, incomprehension and brute force. Places which looked like they had the right tools couldn't understand what I wanted, and a mechanic at a bike shop hammered the wrong tool onto my hub before I could stop him. One bike shop owner waved me off with an incense stick, and another told me that I wouldn't be able to get what I needed in Varanasi, which was probably the most helpful thing anyone told me. I was going to have to do this myself.<br /><br />I went back to the hardware shop and bought a hand file. I hoped that the metal of the spanner was soft enough that I'd be able to file off the couple of millimetres I needed to fit it onto my hub.<br /><br />The little workshop with the big vice was closed when I arrived back, and I did the job in the street. After ten minutes' furious filing, it was done, the spanner was thin enough, and I could swap the axles. It was a perfect moment. From there, everything could flow. I knew I could fix it, and that was when my observer uttered the admiring words "You're a mechanic!"<br /><br />The job took fifteen minutes, including patching the very small holes in my innertubes which I only found when I checked them in a bucket of water. The bike is a bike again, and I'd fixed it myself with parts available locally, rather than having to wait for parts to be couriered from Delhi, or even having to hop on a train.<br /><br />I occasionally manage to kid myself that I'm a rugged individualist, self-reliant and thrusting myself into the unknown with no ties to the world outside my bubble of independence, but in reality I'm at the end of a very long chain of people who supply cake and other less-vital supplies by post from England, I accept hospitality and support and companionship wherever I meet it (which is everywhere, except Austria), and with the availability of the internet, I'm in touch with friends and family every couple of days.<br /><br />However, there are still times when I have to fall back on my own knowledge, and skills, and ingenuity. I was faced with a problem which people repeatedly told me could not be fixed here, and I fixed it. I rescued myself from frustration and near-despondency. The relief when I pumped the tyre and slotted the wheel back into place was delicious.<br /><br />So yeah, alright, I'm a mechanic now, as I needed to be a mechanic. I wonder what skills I'll have to rely upon next time something goes wrong.<br /></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-28013687600265702062012-03-06T03:36:00.003-08:002012-03-06T05:55:28.446-08:00Is This the Way to Allahabad?<span ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6958691219/" title="dossing out of the sun by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7038/6958691219_65a489f7cc_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="dossing out of the sun" /></a></span><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">The day into Allahabad to briefly cross paths with Phileas Fogg was marked by a series of minor catastrophes. The hostel tried to skank me out of fifty rupees, I had a puncture after only 3 miles and had to fix it in the blazing sun before yet another goggle-eyed audience, bellowing questions into my face while I was trying to find the hole, then I lost my iPhone when the road - National Highway 76 - turned into a rutted track of loose hardcore and four-inch stones. I rode that section twice, quartering the ground for my phone.</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6812720804/" title="India! by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7178/6812720804_26412741d4_z.jpg" width="480" height="640" alt="India!" /></a></span><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I was accosted by a holy man in the village, who insisted on daubing green dye on my forehead. I don't count that as a catastrophe - it cheered me up a bit, and I rode on, saying farewell to my phone. I was probably more annoyed at having to do a double turn along the awful surface, which snapped the cable tie repair on my rear pannier, which I had to fix again, and above all it cost me time which I didn't have as I wanted to get to Allahabad that evening. I'd been riding mostly long days since Bundi to get to Varanasi for Holi and have a couple of days off, and consecutive days of 85, 95, 75 and 80 miles had taken it out of me, especially in the heat. I had to take long breaks in the afternoons to get out of the sun, and as anyone who knows me can testify, I'm not good at getting up in the mornings, so I usually failed to take advantage of the cool dawn air.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6812720810/" title="National Highway 76 by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7068/6812720810_be1aeb212a_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="National Highway 76" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">The road surface improved, and I was making good time at last, until the next setback, when I had a rear wheel puncture. And I had to replace the cable ties on my pannier again. Then I couldn't repair the tube, as it was split at the valve, so I hoyed it. This left me with only one spare tube; I'd had to throw the other two out as they'd been chewed up by a rat which bit its way into my drybag at a ratbag hotel in Shivpuri, also perforating my sleeping mat and condemning me to an uncomfortable night's sleep on the stony ground when I camped up. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6812654478/" title="rats ate my innertube! by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7188/6812654478_471554107e_z.jpg" width="480" height="640" alt="rats ate my innertube!" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I fitted my last tube. Then, riding into a village, the road turned to cobbles, and I noticed that the rear tyre was deflating again. I rode on. The cable ties on my pannier couldn't cope with the cobbles, so the pannier landed in the dust.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">It was getting dark, and I'd had enough. In the heat and humidity and with a huge crowd, I fixed the puncture and re-attached the pannier. Then, I opened one of the beers I'd bought and drank it. That was my best move of the day. I was having a grand old time chatting with the crowd which had developed, and for once they had to tell me to clear off, as it was getting dark and I needed to get to Allahabad.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6812654472/" title="yet-another-road-accident in India by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7191/6812654472_4581868e63_z.jpg" width="480" height="640" alt="yet-another-road-accident in India" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Night riding in India is insane. I always try to avoid it, but on a couple of occasions I haven't had a choice. The sheer heedlessness seems to go up a few notches, as drivers have their headlights on full beam (those who bother switching them on) and drive down the middle of the road. A few times, I simply couldn't see where I was going in the dazzle of headlights. <span style="font-size: 100%; ">The roadsigns to Allahabad petered out, but a few locals pointed me in the right direction, onto the huge suspension bridge which crosses the Ganga. At night, when the mist was rising from the river, it was an eerie experience, and I was completely worn out. I fell off a little bit in traffic -I clipped my front pannier on a bit of corrugated iron which jutted out into the road and which I hadn't seen in the dark. I dropped the bike, but unclipped and stayed on my feet, and the tuk-tuk driver behind me had good enough reflexes to stop before smacking into me. I smiled an apology - he seemed more amused than anything else.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div><span ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6812720820/" title="suspension bridge at night, Allahabad by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7068/6812720820_0a63f5f69b_z.jpg" width="480" height="640" alt="suspension bridge at night, Allahabad" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Yes, I was feeling sorry for myself. I had a near-meltdown at a hotel where, after I'd said I didn't have enough cash and specified that I'd have to pay by credit card, they made me go through the whole rigmarole of looking at the room and trooping up and down the stairs before they told me that the machine wasn't working so I'd have to pay cash. I left in a ranting fury and found a different hotel, a much nicer hotel than I'd stayed in since Jonathan went back to the UK, as this was no time to go hunting for the budget option. A comfy bed, pleasant staff, a shower, TV and a lie-in were on the cards. It had been a very long day - 13 hours and 92 miles, which was at least 10 miles further than I needed to travel.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I made it to Varanasi the next day, in contrast riding the 85 miles in about 8 hours. I picked up yet another puncture, and the skewer on my rear wheel has snapped, which will require major surgery to my bicycle and probably the use of a machine shop to get me back to Delhi. Every other bike I've seen has solid axles, and Delhi's the only place I can get a replacement quick release.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">India is tough. But, I alwas knew it would be, and if there's anywhere in the world where you'll get loads of help when things go wrong, it's mega-populous Uttar Pradesh. OK, the help isn't always very helpful, but the warmth and the desire to be useful is heartwarming. There are bike shops and puncture-wallahs every couple of miles. I'll ride back to Delhi somehow, even if I have to bodge a single speed wheel into my frame and strap the old wheel to the back. Dammit, this isn't going to beat me. It's a test, everything's a test.</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">But it can wait until tomorrow. Now, I'm off to negotiate some beer.</span></div></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-62820117598083995312012-03-02T07:39:00.001-08:002012-03-16T07:52:06.283-07:00In Praise of... Cable Ties, or, How the Indian Habit of Staring At Stuff Can Have Unpleasant ConsequencesCable ties. What would we do without them? What did we do before them? They come in a variety of sizes and colours, and you can even get re-usable ones. <p>I was reminded of their near-infinite usefulness the other day. I was just leaving a small village, off the main highway, riding towards the town of Bundi on a real boneshaker of a road - bumps, lumps, potholes, the lot. </p><p>There were three grinning loons on a motorbike riding behind me, just about on my wheel, and I waved at them to clear off or come past, but they were having too good a time staring at me to leave yet. I had to brake sharply to miss a wheel-munching pothole, and as they were so close and paying so little attention, they clouted into the back of me. </p><p>I picked myself out of the dirt. My right pannier had been knocked off by the impact. The motorbikers had stopped just ahead - they looked at the damage, and at me in a fury, screaming abuse at them. Then they left. Bastards. </p><p>I was in a real floor-kicking, stone-chucking rage. I started hoying rocks after them, but (luckily) they were out of range. </p><p>A busload of Italian tourists stopped to check I was OK. I scrounged a fag off one of them (my first cigarette in four years) and had a smoko while I assessed the damage. My good old Carradice Super C was undamaged, as you'd expect from something sturdily made in BRITAIN, except for the hooks which attach it to the rack. They weren't repairable - however, I quickly realised that I could bodge a temporary fix with... cable ties!</p><p>By then, a huge crowd from two buses and umpteen motorbikes had gathered to watch, and pass comment, and help. But mainly to watch. I was a bit too focused to let it bother me. In short order I had my pannier re-attached, and a murmur of admiration went through the crowd. We all shook hands, one of the tourists took my photo, and I packed away my gear, with many hands passing my possessions back to me. </p><p>I'm pleased it happened, even though I later discovered that the screen on my ereader was another victim of the collision. Not only did I get chance to show off my bodging skills to an attentive audience, it encapsulated the best and worst of the Indian experience, as my mood went from exasperation to red rage to calm acceptance and finally amusement at how my situation had become another part of the street theatre that passes for your average day in India.</p>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-36523549443346390642012-02-22T08:27:00.005-08:002012-02-25T00:33:00.406-08:00Day 165: Udaipur to Chittorgarh<span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; ">If only all cycling days were as easy as today.</span><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Well, actually it wouldn't be half as much fun, but an easy day on smooth roads with a stonking tailwind is still a day to be treasured. Even the routefinding out of Udaipur was easy; I pointed my bike at the rising sun, crossed the nearest bridge, followed what seemed to be the main flow of traffic through the maze of alleys in Udaipur, and found myself onto the road to Chittorgarh without taking a single wrong turn, despite not having a map at a usable scale and despite there being no signs in English until I was ten miles out of town.<br /></p><p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6776546176/" title="the Leopard Highway, Rajasthan by dean.clementson, on Flickr" style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7044/6776546176_340630ebbd_z.jpg" alt="the Leopard Highway, Rajasthan" height="640" width="480" /></a><br /></p><div style="text-align: center; "><span style="font-size: small; "><b>The Leopard Highway</b></span></div><p></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; ">The road rolled gently up and down, but never so seriously up that I got much of a sweat on, which was a good thing in the sweltering heat, and I cooled a bit on the descents. A tourist bus passed and I pitied the poor travellers stuck on that thing in those temperatures. </p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Also, it was a day without punctures or tyre catastrophes - for once. I started a maintenance log about two weeks ago, to keep track of punctures and general fettling. Irony of ironies, I'd had little to report until then. Since I started the log, I've had to scrap two tyres and I've had eleven punctures in a single day. Eleven! At least I could buy a new tyre here in India; I tried to choose parts which are universally available (or simple enough that I could bodge a repair) and it's passed the first test.<br /></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6908479867/" title="ruined tyre in Rajasthan by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7062/6908479867_f560db7fb6_z.jpg" alt="ruined tyre in Rajasthan" height="640" width="480" /></a><br /></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; ">75 miles at 14 mph today. And u've started seeing signs for Allahabad, which would put me on the trail of Phileas Fogg. Maybe I won't bother riding south to the line of the Tropic of Cancer. If I'm lucky that wind will hold all the way to Varanasi.</p>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-45695310385494867212012-02-14T19:30:00.000-08:002012-02-20T01:07:55.979-08:00Help Help I'm in Puncture HellI've just patched four holes in the same tube and removed four thorns from the same tyre. Stupid thorns. Crappy tyres.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851236925/" title="thorns in Rajasthan by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7070/6851236925_9dc0c63a6a_z.jpg" alt="thorns in Rajasthan" height="480" width="640" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6908509387/" title="damn thorns by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7062/6908509387_cb6feaf740_z.jpg" alt="damn thorns" height="480" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6908509401/" title="damn thorns #2 by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7055/6908509401_e6cc15c939_z.jpg" alt="damn thorns #2" height="480" width="640" /></a><br /></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-32024189778849527092012-02-09T07:53:00.000-08:002012-02-20T00:11:44.867-08:00Three Days in Rajasthan: Amer to Ajmer<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851236931/" title="Rajasthani camel driver by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7206/6851236931_763b863618_z.jpg" alt="Rajasthani camel driver" height="640" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Before he left to go back to England, Jonathan said to me that he hoped I wouldn't have too nice a time without him, otherwise he'd be jealous. <p>I was still in the Golden Triangle, which is often the only bit of India tourists see (those without a luxurious three months here, anyway), so I didn't expect a great deal of change from the atmosphere around Delhi. I'd always planned to go to Jaipur; it was one of the few definite ideas I had about India before I came. Other than that, I simply wanted to see the place, to wander into it and let it happen to me. But with me on a bike, obviously. Going around Rajasthan simply fitted in with that vague intention. </p><p>Jaipur is famous for the Pink City, the city palace at its centre, and for the forts that stand at the top of the surrounding hills. I was pleased to see the troops of elephants going up the road to Amer Fort when I rode past, though I didn't get very close as I was on the other side of the lake and I didn't want to pay to get in. I had a great view, and an amusing conversation with a load of tuk-tuk drivers about the gears on my bike. </p><p>I quickly decided that I'd only spend one night in Jaipur. I found a decent cheap hotel and wandered back to the pink city. This was a bit like that event in the TV show Gladiators where the contestant runs a gauntlet of gladiators who assault her with pads and sticks. I dodged the beardy rickshawman, shook off the "student" who wanted to practice his English, then encountered a very persistent little beggar girl who kept trying to take my hand. While I was trying to fend her off, the "student" made his second move but he seemed disappointed by my lack of response "hey, don't you like talking to people?" he asked. I continued to ignore him, bent down, turned the little girl round and told her to go home as gently as I could. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851199051/" title="the decaying Pink City, Jaipur by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7165/6851199051_dcecdc7aaf_z.jpg" alt="the decaying Pink City, Jaipur" height="640" width="480" /></a></p><div><p></p><p>Tourist India (as I think of it) wasn't done with me yet, though. I wandered around the pink city, which is tumbledown and decaying, and atmospheric with it. I thought I'd check out the city palace while I was there - it's much better kept, and the armoury is as terrifying a collection of pointy, stabby, shooty, creative death as I've ever seen. They even had a camel gun, which, as I overheard a tour guide point out, wasn't for shooting camels, but was a 50 lb beastie to be used from the back of a camel in battle. I do enjoy overhearing snippets of other people's tours, though I don't feel I got the best out of the Hindi tour guide. </p><p>The lowlight of the City Palace was when I asked about going to the Chandra Mahal, the highest point of the palace, and the guy said it cost 2,500 rupees. For a second I thought I was back in Iran and he'd got his zeros mixed up, but no, that was the price. Per person. I suddenly felt proud of myself for having used my Stockton Borough Council library card to pass myself off as a student and get a discount on the entry. Sticking it to The Man. </p><p>There were a different set of beggars on MI Road when I walked back. They sprinted past me to pose pathetically in front of the Lassi shop, so my heartstrings remained unplucked that time. The same "student" didn't recognise me and started his patter until I said "oh no, not you again!"</p><p>I left Jaipur the next morning. I had an easy day's riding and I've had two nights of camping, two days of cycling around Rajasthan. I've had a perfect moment when I wandered out of my tent in time to see the full moon rise, I've tried to negotiate a vehicle swap with a Rajasthani camel driver, I've eaten roadside dahl and roadside macaroons and had a shave/face clean/head message (which was an amazing experience), I've left my bike with maps and iPhone on show in the care of street kids while I ate an omelette, and most unusually I've had some quiet roads and blissful camping.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851236973/" title="kids watching my bike in Dudu, Rajasthan by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7054/6851236973_0d9a1f9ebb_z.jpg" alt="kids watching my bike in Dudu, Rajasthan" height="480" width="640" /></a></p><p>Jonathan and I were taking the piss out of a group of Spaniards at the Ajanta Hotel who had wildly ambitious plans for their brief time in India; they were going to visit Delhi in a morning, then get a bus to the Taj Mahal in time for sunset, leave Agra the next day for Jaipur... As Jonathan said, they'd be lucky to get out of Delhi by then. It took me the best part of half a day to get a sim card, and in a car it was at least five hours to Agra. I hope it all worked out, but I don't think you can force India to fit your plan - I'm pleased to have the leisure to wander and let it happen to me, and especially pleased to get away from the tourist trail. I overpaid the macaroon seller this morning, and he insisted on giving me a cup of chai in return. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYoUorVxW0VxtG0H6WdVzq3Fd-JL_qOiKNnzHUCIc0_2127icKv65grQbLt6EXA8C5rXdZyTas6voHayB-O_Thy6rnPl8YikMxmf-cdmfU53p1b8tavOoYwQe8FkgmcBPilj7_olJpxQ/s1600/elizabeth+144.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYoUorVxW0VxtG0H6WdVzq3Fd-JL_qOiKNnzHUCIc0_2127icKv65grQbLt6EXA8C5rXdZyTas6voHayB-O_Thy6rnPl8YikMxmf-cdmfU53p1b8tavOoYwQe8FkgmcBPilj7_olJpxQ/s400/elizabeth+144.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707486934947185506" border="0" /></a><div><p>I think Jonathan would like this bit of India, which seems to be full of... well, people. People who stare at me and wave and smile and though they may see me as an object of curiosity, they don't look at me like a target. Also, the shave was hilarious. I've never been buffed before (it's quite like being hammered with very delicate hammers), especially not when the barber has to push the wires directly into the mains. I'm not sure Jonathan would have liked that bit, but we'd have laughed about it afterwards.</p><p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/sets/72157629256768395/">Rajasthan photos on Flickr</a><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div></div>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-55287280934477958212012-02-06T07:38:00.001-08:002012-02-10T04:32:22.962-08:00A Day in the Life of a Cycle Tourist in India<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2B0pB2OgysQB1gX3off9lNHiPkYbzD-gx-1ls5p2syhHAgqgIfv8jDbk3sz3iW6m7TiIQYAY6ZyJwJs2Xy03HOJ_Ly41C0IqqyBgrFTGKY3LeVDw2UUUWJkkN2I14kjFBa-MVW-hNUo/s1600/elizabeth+014.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2B0pB2OgysQB1gX3off9lNHiPkYbzD-gx-1ls5p2syhHAgqgIfv8jDbk3sz3iW6m7TiIQYAY6ZyJwJs2Xy03HOJ_Ly41C0IqqyBgrFTGKY3LeVDw2UUUWJkkN2I14kjFBa-MVW-hNUo/s400/elizabeth+014.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707478299371243330" /></a><br /><br />[journal entry 05/02/2012]<p>Got up, got out of my sleeping bag. </p><p>Breakfast: coffee, porridge, a granola bar. I slept well and it was 9:30 by the time I'd struck camp and got on the road. That was some of the gnarliest undergrowth I've ever camped in - I had burrs and scratches all over me and my clothes. There were some big loud birds making a racket in the trees above me, about the size of crows but grey and with heads shaped like jays. I might look for a Guide to Indian Birds in Jaipur. It would be nice to know. </p><p>I overtook a few camels which were pulling carts along National Highway 8. A day or two ago that was still an unusual sight but now it's commonplace and out here they seem to be the commonest beasts of burden. Rajasthan is a desert state, I suppose. </p><p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851158601/" title="Rajasthan! by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7023/6851158601_44a8f933ed_z.jpg" width="480" height="640" alt="Rajasthan!" /></a></p><p>I did enter Rajasthan this morning, and ran the gauntlet of traffic to get a photo of the sign, which was in the central reservation. I haven't taken many photos these last couple of days so I was pleased to get that one. </p><p>It was still flat as anything and I was merrily rolling along. I'm the focus of all eyes out here, and sometimes the approach of the locals is a bit weird. Alright, it's always weird. When I was sat scoffing my dinner a guy on his bike stopped, staring at me, then walked to within fifty yards and pretended to look out at the fields, but he kept looking askance at me. A guy in a car pulled up next to me, blared his horn in my lughole, then turned in front of me and stopped. He looked surprised when I rode on. Another guy on a bike overtook me v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y but still couldn't maintain the pace, so I went past him again, smiling and saying "namaste" as I did. He stared straight ahead. I shrugged. A few seconds later he came past again, still staring ahead, but this time he growled just like Lee Perry does at the start of Jungle Lion. He cut across me and towards a roadside restaurant, gesturing at me to join him. I had to laugh. </p><p>India is full of incidents like this. A day here is worth a week anywhere else. </p><p>I tried to buy some butter to put in my cheese sarnies. Yeah, I'm getting right into the cuisine. I asked at a roadside stall/restaurant which looked likely. I got some Pepsi and pineapple juice and asked if he did butter. He didn't understand. I repeated it, rolling the "r", but still no recognition. I tried more of an RP accent, in case he was confused by my flat vowels, I did it with and without the glottal stop. Eventually I threw my hands up in disgust and left, but I remembered that I had the butter packaging in my bag of rubbish, so I gestured him over and showed him the packaging. "Ah, butter!" says he, and rattles off a load of Hindi to the guy in the kitchen, in which the word "butter" is clearly distinguishable. Crazy country. It turned out to be margarine, too. I had the same issue later when I asked for some water, the guy shook his head and said "Mountain Dew?" but I repeated myself and he nodded. "Water, yes." I don't know what's happening any more. I'm not sure I dare trying to learn Hindi as that would give us an extra language in which to misunderstand one another. </p><p>I can't help liking the people, though. After my dinner I took a speed bump a bit too fast and came off with a rear wheel puncture. There didn't seem to be anyone around - I thought I might get away without the usual audience. No such luck. I don't know where they came from but there were soon half a dozen people around me. I felt the need to be a little bad-tempered as the last thing I wanted was an audience. Someone asked me a question and I replied "piss off." As he repeated it, "Piss-off-a," I guess they'd asked where I was from. I gestured and waved and told them to go and fix the road but they weren't going anywhere. Becoming more amused than exasperated, I asked about chai and one of them pointed to the tea stand over the road. I waved that one of them should go and get me a cup but I wasn't sure I'd been understood, or that they'd bother. Turns out, the subsequent babbled argument was about who had to go and get the tea - the youngest went and got me a cup of sweet milky cha which he handed to me just as I was fitting a spare innertube, and refused payment. I took a couple of photos of the gang and relaxed into the moment. </p><p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851158609/" title="audience to a puncture by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7033/6851158609_5e6e6bfdb8_z.jpg" width="640" height="480" alt="audience to a puncture" /></a></p><p>It was lucky they were there, really, as one of them pointed out the huge tear in the tyre sidewall. I deftly took it off and fitted my spare tyre. I think I'll have to get my sister to bring some new tyres when she comes to visit in March - those Marathon XR tyres have been rubbish. In the bin with it. </p><p>When I'd pumped the tyre back up and re-fitted the wheel, the lads were all admiring the bike and the pump and my Dennis the Menace doll. I gestured that the main guy should have a go on my bike, and as he was a bit stand-offish, one of his mates elbowed him out of the way to dive on and go wobbling up the road. He went so far that I half-thought he wasn't coming back. I think he was just having trouble making it turn. A couple of them rode it up and down the service road: grins all around. It was another weird encounter, not least the fact that I'd got my point across far more easily to people who spoke not a word of English. </p><p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30024450@N04/6851158623/" title="Indian on my bike by dean.clementson, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7194/6851158623_77cac44340_z.jpg" width="640" height="523" alt="Indian on my bike" /></a></p><p>I did manage to get milk. No beer though. Yesterday the road was lined with English Wine and Beer shops, but today none except one with its shutters up. Maybe it's a dry day in Rajasthan? Mind you, I prefer having no beer to having no milk: finding milk was hard. A random shop on a row of identical shops happened to have a few packets of milk in the fridge (packets of milk take me right back to being a kid). I still haven't picked up the cues when it comes to shops. Maybe there are none. </p><p>I started to look for somewhere to camp at about 4.30 - I didn't want to get too close to Jaipur. I could have made it there tonight, but I'd rather have a night in a tent followed by an afternoon and a morning in Jaipur than have a full day and have to stump up for an extra night in a hotel. </p><p>Rajasthan is much less populous than Utter Pradesh and the area around Delhi, but it was still a pain trying to find somewhere quiet to camp. I thought I'd found a decent spot behind a hill but one of the locals thought I was lost and tried to guide me out. I shook him off, then another local took a quarter-mile detour to stand next to me and stare, saying not a word. Maybe he was just engaging in that famous Indian pastime of staring at stuff, or maybe he was hinting that I should scarper. Either way, I wasn't lingering. </p><p>I rolled up the road a little ways and found a gap in a wall, so I'm camping within thirty yards of the road. It's quieter here within the Jaipur Ring Road (which may also explain the difficulty with finding a campsite), even with the buzzing of the power lines above me. I didn't set fire to myself when I made my tea tonight, which was pasta and cheese sauce again. I've come up with a very simple plan of where to go after Jaipur - I'll tour the J-towns of Rajasthan, so I'll go across the desert to Jaisalmer, which sounds beautiful and which fits in with my plan of getting into the desert, back to Jodhpur (I like the name) then I'll follow the line of hills down towards Gujarat. I'd like to get down to the Indian Ocean but not if it takes too long. </p><p>So: from near Bawal, NH8, Kotputli, here - 78.98 miles/ 392:41/ 12.07 mph average/ 23.5 mph max/ 5714 miles total</p>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5521270443102100692.post-30901866514317518982012-02-05T06:16:00.000-08:002012-02-10T04:35:24.713-08:00Delhi-ing TacticsI'm camping somewhere near...well, somewhere on the road to Jaipur. I've ridden seventy-some miles today and there's another hundred and some to Jaipur, so that's a day and a half of easy riding if it stays as flat as today. It's quite fun to trounce along at 18 mph all day. <p>I was a bit nervous about camping - mainly nervous about security, and not security against tigers. This is such a populous place that there's no spare land, and I've been riding along today examining the roadside. Even though the NH8 goes through far more rural places than the roads north of Delhi, which was like riding through one very long town, there still aren't many quiet copses or abandoned houses I could use as shelter. The abandoned house turns out to have three families living inside it...</p><p>I have eventually found a quiet place behind some bushes and near a pond. This isn't as peaceful as it may sound - I'm only a hundred metres or so from the road and the traffic isn't letting up. I can hardly hear the calls of the wading birds in the pond, and I'd have no chance of hearing somebody approach in the night. </p><p>I'm still pleased to be back camping again. Last night's hotel was a dump. The walls were paper thin and I was awoken by the dawn chorus of the guy next door hawking, hacking and spitting so percussively that I had to go and check we weren't sharing a bathroom. He did it three more times while I was cooking my porridge. Then, at checkout, the guy at the counter tried to wangle 50 extra rupees out of me as a 10% tax. I wasn't rude (even though I'm at my snarly worst in the mornings, especially after being woken by somebody's nasal passage), I just wasn't paying it. Maybe something of my mood came over, as he didn't press the point and went on to ask me where I was going. Hah. Away from this dump, mate.</p><p>The ride out of Delhi was easy. I've always found riding and navigation in Delhi pretty easy. I stopped at a wee supermarket to get a couple of bits for the day, and waved at all the bus passengers, armed soldiers, layabouts and street people who stared at me as I passed. And the main road to Jaipur, NH8, is quite usable. I had a late start but I still covered seventy-odd miles before I stopped at about 4.30. </p><p>The hiatus has left me I a bit out of practice at camping, though. I nearly set fire to myself with my petrol stove just now, as I forgot to check the seal was in place, and even though I was pouring petrol onto the dry grass, I still tried to light it. The flames have died down now, though, and I've had my tea. I've opened one of the beers I bought in Connaught Place yesterday and which I carried all day. I've only passed about twelve English Wine and Beer shops. Ah well. It's a long time since I sat outside a tent with a beer, looking up at the moon and stars. </p><p>A lot of other cyclists I've met only camp on sufferance, when forced to by their budget or the lack of a hotel, but I've always thought of it as a central part of my trip. I like to be independent, I like the sense of my own space, I like the solitude, and I enjoy the rituals of finding a suitable spot, making sure to have enough food, ducking into the tent when it becomes too cold and striking camp as early as I can be bothered in the morning. Maybe I'll take an extra day on the road to Jaipur, and have another night under canvas.</p>Dean Clementsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11038645069296685919noreply@blogger.com0