A Great Big South Indian Adventure 11

Bullet Boy Belt Up

It was due to be an early start from the marsh at the edge of the jungle, but for me it was a dawn rise. There was a light drizzle so as expected no large animals were visible, even with the binoculars.
But Chris and Tony's porch would have done the Natural History Museum proud. Their nightlight had attracted legions of moths and butterflies and other nocturnal insect life. 
Chris wandered out a little later, armed with only his underpants and that unworldly tigger-like early morning energy.
Sitting on the edge of the wilderness writing happy tales of the trip had given me a writer's warm glow, but its still good to see someone positive and pleasant first thing in the morning. 

Once Chris had got dressed we wandered up for an early breakfast and met Alex. Luckily for Alex. 

Because Chris described me as a BBC drama, well thought out, well presented, in good taste, but completely bloody useless. 
That is the sort of gem Alex will probably happily carry around, ready to use on another idiot like me. At least I escaped any major barrage that morning as we all got ready to ride. Chris had done his usual clean-up of everyone's mirrors and even wiped the seats. Sometimes we spotted this random act of kindness and thanked him for it, but I am pretty BBC drama at noticing this sort of thing and failed to give him his due most of the time.

The mirror cleaning and seat wiping was steadily washed away by the morning drizzle. This would be our first major ride in the rain. 
The email with essential pre-trip instructions from Nomadic Knights had said that waterproofs were useful but not essential and we may even welcome some wet as a relief from the heat, so I had not bothered. Now I expected to get wet, but without the heat.

It was a convoy ride. Steady, trying to stay safe and recognising there was no need for speed. It was pleasant and easy to get into a steady riding rhythm, and so much more fun with a well-behaved bike. 
But you can't lean a lot in the wet and you can brake all you want but stopping takes a lot longer, not only for you but more importantly for the other random road users you face head on, all the time, on your side of the road.

The Bullet Boys stuck together, well together(ish) with some steady leap-frogging and puttering to the unmistakable sound of an Enfield in low revs and high torque.

It was the last day, so we were nominally trying for safety. Of course with everyone in high spirits and very confident we did not always succeed. But there was a wake up call when we came across our fourth accident of the trip, an MPV on its side. People milling around, nobody seemed badly hurt. Yet another reminder, especially on our last day's riding.

I didn't see Chris go off the road, but it was one of the stories that came up at the next stop and one he happily reenacted on the way home in Dubai airport, to the bemusement of the international travelers having international coffee.

Sometimes you take a chance when overtaking, with the idea that you can always use the side of the road if needed. Chris ran out of road and ended up some way up someone's unpaved driveway. One track, dirt track, what can you say. 
On Michael's previous trip there had been a daily award for good and bad behaviour. The bad award was 'Dick of the Day'. Luckily there wasn't one on our trip as I would probably have got it several times, not least for dropping, twice. But this was an opportunity to nominate Chris, so in our mature middle aged manner he acquired the moniker - Dick Up the Dirt Track.

After a restaurant lunch that was acceptable but not fun (we were roadside stop junkies by then), we were pottering along, at speed, when Chris suddenly pulled over. He'd got something in his eye and it hurt. 
At last I could finally repay some of his kindness and stay with him, hanging around with sympathy and minimal medical ability. 
After years of injuries and visits to hospitals I have at least learned that a foreign object in the eye is normally quickly expelled. But there is a bruising reaction that makes it feel as though something is still there. At least I could verify that whatever it was, had gone. So apart from suffering the discomfort. there was nothing more to do except carry on. At least for once it was not me with the pain.
As a diversion, that reminded me of the days I lived very close to the Tower of London (b.c. - before children). the marathon came down the end of our road in St. Katherine's Dock. Having run a marathon a few years before I absolutely knew the torture like feeling of hitting the wall. The body has got through whatever food you had on board and starts consuming muscles for energy. It really, really hurts. In St. Katherine's Dock there is a small hill at about 19 miles and this is where a lot of runners hit the wall. I used to sit in the Yacht Club and shout at these suffering individuals in agony - 'It's only pain'.
Oh to have captured the looks of intense and pure hatred. But it got them on the move!
No hatred here though, this was a fun way to experience the richness of India. And with a bike that worked it was extra fun. A few minutes later we had our last chai stop on a bend in the middle of a settlement where we spent 20 minutes waiting for Steve. But we had Ian with his inexhaustible supply of digestives and wine gums.

Having gathered the group we all got ready for the ride into town. Michael Cooke got a new memory card for a GoPro that was stuck on the boot of the Ambassador. And the Bullet Boys spent the next 30 minutes coming into town showing off for the camera.
We were weaving, bobbing and riding four abreast on a two lane road in the middle of a busy Indian town. We were undertaking on the pavement and squeezing other vehicles out of the way. It wasn't completely reckless, we had just learnt that you can be assertive when going at town speed and people don't normally want to have an accident. 

There was a group stop at the side of the road and we got our instructions from Alex. This was the biking photo op. We were riding Indian file, one after the other and approached the GoPro Ambassador at speed, overtaking smoothly and professionally.
It was a great feeling and I've not seen the video, but was concentrating really hard on not falling off and probably looked like a terrified rabbit!
We reassembled and were closely following Alex, who was driving sensibly as always. He stopped, in the middle of our side of the road. It was David and Goliath. Alex and the rhino.

A bus wanted to overtake a bus that was picking up passengers. He was banking on Alex going into the ditch. Alex stood his ground and we all bunched up with him. The overtaking bus had to wait for the stopped bus to start off again.

One up for the good guys.

Bullet Boy Curtain Call

We entered the hotel grounds making lots of noise, using lots of clutch with lots of throttle. So we made a real racket while drifting slowly into the hotel courtyard. It was exhilarating. We stopped line abreast and had a final rev up to wake the dead.

Photo op time, with lots of smiley faces.
There had to be a big to do about this being the end, because it didn't feel like it and I would certainly have happily carried on riding, for a long time.

Banners and cheers. hugs and congratulations all round. 

Big smiles and no serious injuries. Its good looking back at the photos. I'm proud to be a Nomadic Knight. It felt good. It was good. We did good.

A Great Big South Indian Adventure 7

What? Pronounced in a slack teenage style, like 'whaaaa', my catchphrase on The Adventure, borrowed from number one equal son Hamish.

Maybe the Bullet Boys wanted to make a statement about my morning ebullience when my bike started easily. Maybe they wanted to leave me behind. Or just have a laugh, but it had enough of an effect on Will that we had to delay setting off while he attended to urgent business. Cue standard lavatorial humour.

From Coimbatore we battled out of the city on the road to Kadaikanal. There was more open traffic and the bike was working well, so we had a few spells of leapfrog, letting people through to drop back, followed by a rush up to the front again. The open roads meant we were fairly close together as a group.

The morning stop was just after the turn-off for Kodaikanal. We had excellent chai and kept going back for more grub, which was delicious. Most of us had learned to concentrate on the food presented to us in torn up newspaper at the roadside and not do a Health & Safety inspection of the premises. Will not only committed that sin but took a video of the cooking area. You just know that the nighttime cleaning staff were rodents and scavenging insects.

But the cooking utensils were well maintained and the fire killed most remaining germs. Besides whatever residues were incorporated into the recipe certainly enhanced the flavour.
Sometimes the most surprising parts of a trip are the parts that are not there, Sherlock's dog that didn't bark.
We were all filled with the new sights, sounds, smells and tastes. So we had not noticed that none of us were sick with dysentery or Delhi belly, which in hindsight is a very big surprise. Perhaps the pro-biotics the boys had been taking, or the fresh food from our part of Italy, had set us up. Maybe hygiene was just getting better in India. Whichever way it was a very good result.

 We were in a jovial mood and there were a few photos of the fascinating people and articles that had congregated there, including one of the very, very few beggars we encountered and the local version of 'man with a van'.

The ride up to Kodaicanal was simply magnificent. Sweeping uphill, hairpins with wider roads than normal and few potholes. We all had a stunning time and the Bullet Boys stopped some of the way up to take photos and drain the adrenaline. I had started dragging the pegs and having done it once managed a couple of dozen times before we stopped.

We took a long break, admiring the view, grabbing a smoke, or two and letting the bike engines cool along with our own overheated moods. Having stopped for about 20 minutes we carried on up the hill to find the main group had stopped for photos, which is where this comes from:

... and when I get the hang of it maybe Chris' Jurassic Park video will give a better feeling of the place. Big and open and prehistoric.
Michael was in fine form and led the Bullet Boys up the hill. I thought he was riding like a mad man and taking risks, but he obviously had a much better view round the corners than I did and there were no clise shaves so it was probably just good bike riding!
At to the top and found Fritha and Sarah had stopped for a 'budgie' so we guessed it was a good refuelling stop. It wasn't.
It was a great refuelling stop. The budgies were delicious, so we stayed and ate and chatted more about the great ride up. Steve arrived, as did Lovely in the jeep and the baggage train, which was a van with Dharmendar, our mechanic, extra spare parts and all our baggage.

We invited the boys for lunch, stuffed ourselves with food and Will generously offered to settle the bill. Lunch for 9 people eating as much food as they sensibly could, with lots of chai and Will had to cough up 370 rupees or €5. He left a tip!
We were well behind the others, but we didn't really care. It was a Bullet Boy bonding day. 
We eventually met up with the group just ahead of a hill station of yore, Kodaikanal. It was misty and threatening rain so I didn't notice anything about the town except that the approach to the hotel was convoluted and way, way up the hill. Hotel Le Poshe. I mean seriously. It really was called Le Poshe and was newly fitted out in a very modern style. The staff were really friendly and looked a lot more Asian than Indian. But nothing quite worked.

In the bathrooms the short taps didn't reach far enough over the large rectangular, highly modern sinks, so washing your hands meant soaking the top behind the sink. The light switches were halfway into the room, making returning to the room in the dark interesting. The hotel guide mentioned table tennis and Chris wanted revenge, so we went to reception and 20 minutes later we had the bats, a ball and one of the junior staff, dispatched with us to find the table. We negotiated the labyrinth of the conference suite few floors below, using our phones as torches to find well hidden light switches. After an extensive search we found the table well disguised among dozens of conference chairs, deep in a storeroom. We gave up.

Alex found us and swept us up for a quick whisky in his room, where we found a smoke filled cabal of jollity. A few fingers later we were listening to the tobacco tones and violent wit of Doug Stanhope (PG 30).

Somewhere on the edge of sobriety we made it out for a buffet supper, where we met Will and Michael who were extolling the magnificence of their massages in a glowing, languid, trance-like state. The morrow was a rest day, so supper was followed by everyone going out into the cold night air to smoke, drink whisky and talk rubbish.
Since the pollution was setting off my recurring cough I decided to ostentatiously enjoy a large Cuban with slugs from Will's Bottle of Jack. Somehow I found my bed in the dark without waking Steve.

It was an early start the next morning, the gap in the window allowed us to enjoy the full force of the cool night air followed by the pre-dawn muezzin, whose insistent call for prayer I could not respectfully answer in a way he would expect from the faithful. But there was an answer, probably invoking one saviour, or another. A too-brief silence was followed by some version of Radio Islam which, although probably pleasant in the original, was heavily overdubbed by a nameless distortion technician.

Being a rest day there was no rush for breakfast and the marsala omelettes partially made up for the mullah's intonations.

The girls were off for a shopping walk and the boys assembled for a ride out to not see a lake. Alex kindly gave up his rest day to suit our biking urge. My biking urge was tempered by the occassional missed gears but not so bad, just enough to put me on edge.

The road to the lake we wanted to see was blocked by some military looking people so we tried another route and came across a market. As we arrived there was a momentary view of a craggy karst, like the limestone lumps of Phi Phi Island. Spectacular, it quickly hid its modesty in the drifting mist. 
That was obviously why the market was there. Alex explained that India is developing so rapidly and the new middle class were starting to tour around the country, so features like this became tourist attractions. And in the free-for-all of Indian business life that meant lines of stalls selling, as Ian put it, tat.
So we loaded up on that, with a brief pause for chai before launching into the absolute necessities of sunglasses for Will and I at 50 rupees each. Tony went on a tat rampage arriving soon after with a 300 rupee sweatshirt with a real(ish) Puma logo and a 200 rupee Che Guevara t-shirt, That really set the competitive juices flowing so Michael got a couple of Guevaras and Will grabbed some powder that smells like Real Sandalwood! 
We resisted the air rifles and jewelry, but Chris bagged a wooden model of an Enfield Bullet. Some of these probably made it all the way home.

Duty done we wandered around a bit on the bikes, coming across a golf course, which I did not have the time or energy to play.
Further up the hill we found the road we rode in on, so doubled back until Alex found Fairy Falls. We stopped and took lots of photos, there seemed little else to do, but the chance for taking the mickey did not pass by. Since my bike was not behaving and we got back early enough I opted out of pizza and instead got the great Balinese massage recommended by Will and Michael. Unused to pampering I was tolerated by a very good masseur from Mizoram near Myanmar, beyond the Chicken Neck, in the Lost World. 
Hence the Asian look we had seen in Masinaguni and in the staff yesterday. Lots of oil and deep tissue manipulation later I was sent to a steam room with zero visibility, lethally slippery, with oil and water on the floor and a convenient stone bench for cracking the head against when falling. Hoping that my low blood pressure would not recur and send me to a head banging faint I settled in for a lengthy steam. It was not fun and about 20 minutes later, having lost at least 2 litres in poison filled sweat and suffering bad thoughts of being locked in I gave up, only to find the masseur waiting patiently outside with the fourth fresh towel of the event.

Surrounded by a comforting glow I drifted back to the room and steadily lost all peaceful thoughts while trying to update the blog. The inability to scroll in a text box on the iPad did not drag up a solution on Google. After a marathon struggle I was trying to reformat the text when up popped an App that solved all sorts of blogging issues. Obviously most modern challenges have been solved already and are now available as an App! 
Note to self, if its an iProb search for an App.

So two new blogs got published and a draft set up for future editing. They were all missing photos and probably still are.

Hanging around like teenagers all afternoon, we turned up early for supper and got given a set menu, which was the first we had seen all trip.

To recover from the shock I wandered off to snag a whisky from Alex where, over a bunch of laughs, we got set up for supper with snifters. Pre-gaming they call it in US universities.

Chris announced he had agreed with his roommate Tony to turn over a new leaf. No more swearing or bad manners, which was added to their early list of minimal bodily functions in the room and early warnings for unsocial behaviour. this they had agreed included snoring or rolling in drunk and waking the other one up. It was all very disconcerting.

So after supper I wandered out to share a smoke and a chat with Michael, As we were starting on the 'total lack of goals' section in his analysis of my vague life, Chris trumpets his arrival and issues a lengthy stream of single syllable swear words. Safety valve released he wandered off to his shared room in peace and harmony.

It was an early night, helped along by a sleeping pill that set me up to be on fire in the morning....

A Great Big South Indian Adventure 10

Who knew what was beyond our little enclosure. Woods, streams, insects and animals that were normally more afraid of us than we of them. But none of us explored it. We stayed close to the rooms and the fire pit of Chris And The Chair fame.

The insects did not invade our rooms, the animals stayed away, the birds sang with the dawn and it was time to leave the hill country. 

Chris was up too early, again. His roommate Tony was better than expected after passing out the day before. He was armed with painkillers and praying that he would not be the butt of too many jokes. Such a forlorn hope.

Michael Cooke's hangover was still hours away, he was in an unsteady, sedate but unsober state.

For the second day in a row we failed to get a second round of tea or coffee before yomping up to breakfast.

Tony asked about his gloves at breakfast. He'd had to leave his bike and his gear when he went to the hospital and this morning could not find his gloves. That was Alex's opening, especially when no one had a spare pair. Well after breakfast and packing up Tony found them in one of his panniers.

Dharmender promised that my bike had a new battery and an adjusted clutch. As every morning I was full of hope but not expectation. Today the hope was a little stronger as Abi had come up with a logical explanation yesterday for the multitude of inconsistencies the bike was throwing at me.

We had the morning briefing, something about heading towards a place called Thekaddy, which must, in the days of the Raj, have led to more sophisticated jokes than any of us could think of that early in the morning. Alex got on his bike, ready to set off then sat back, breathed out and told Tony that we weren't leaving till Tony gave him his gloves back. The attempted ribbing was water off Alex (who the duck is Alex)'s back.

Unsteady, like newborn savanna animals, we tottered off. Up the hard hill,

My bike was a lot easier to ride. A couple of missed gears but far more reliable. The ride to town was pleasant with the three fallers (Tony, Steve and myself) at the back. Abi guarded the first junction to send us the right way.

In Munmar, it got confusing for Tony and I. We waited at a busy junction for Abi, which was lucky because we would have gone the wrong way. Fairly soon we caught up with the proper bikers. As so often happened they were log jammed behind an even slower moving vehicle than us 'droppers' who were pottering along, trying to regain our confidence.

It was a steady ride, mainly in convoy. But we were travelling through gorgeous scenery in the hills and through the tea plantations.

We weaved around a large lake with tea bushes going right down the steep hillsides to the water's edge. The bushes are about 1 m high, but are interspersed with tall trees that have been heavily pruned. These stabilise the soil on the hillsides and provide a speckling of shade.

I am trying to think what the clumps of tailored bushes remind me of, somewhere between a sponge and one of those thick carpets beloved of the 1980's in our avocado bathrooms.

Of course the rolling countryside and large lake made me think of a golf course, again and this would be a stunning location. It may be one day, but the rawness of the far hillside and the coiffured tea bushes are probably better suited to the local ecosystem than manicured fairways and blobs of bunkers.

We rose up another hillside, through a coll, or a pass through the hills, and Bam! A massive vista opened up. We stopped and took photos and our adrenaline safety valves did their job. 10 minutes later we set off again only to find the main group at a much better photo op stop with yummy food and budgies (bhajis) and all sorts of excessive second breakfast treats, including a beany type salad that looked delicious and dangerous and ended up as irresistible. We talked a lot again and Will dreamt of flying a helicopter through the pass to enjoy the land falling away quickly, a sort of 'copter drop, beloved of film makers and loopy flyers. We thought that buying the house high up the hill and setting up a hang glider school would be a great idea. It was a day for looking at opportunities and business and big floating thoughts. Funny how that happens so high up, with such a huge view of the world.

This was the spot for Fluffy's Adventure Ashram photo op which was a great chance for our individual portraits, well done. And here are the organisers. Alex and Fritha (Fluffy)

and Abi, the bike whisperer

I stood the whole group for their mid morning snack and which cost the princely sum of maybe 200 rupees. You gotta laugh!

We set off on another trek through the thoroughly enjoyable countryside. My confidence came back steadily and it was fun leaning and rolling and taking the overtaking chances as they came up.

The next chai stop was quite long and fairly snacky. The wagon train caught up and did a bit of reorganising which involved the roof of the luggage van. It was a reality check to see the previously hidden aluminium stretcher being repacked. It looked serious and sturdy and capable of keeping a smashed up body together for a while. A sensible decision to have one ready, but a concept that had not crossed my mind. A horrible thought about what could happen and a wake up call as we were getting confident again. Never get cocky.

Fluffy was in a frisky mood and for some reason adjusted her bra, we all pretended not to notice. But it must have triggered dormant thoughts in Chris who was in fine form. He offered a 50 rupee bet that he couldn't make Fluffy's boobs move without touching them. She foolishly accepted. He happily grabbed  them and used the 50 rupees to buy everyone's chai on Fluffy's behalf.

The gesture had mixed reactions to say the least. From shock and outrage to uproarious laughter. Luckily Fluffy, who Chris had nominated as a 'top bird', was with the laughter crowd.

And so we motored off, through the gorgeous Kerala countryside, weaving in and around and through the settlements and the Bullet Boys were leapfrogging along.

We stopped for lunch at a place with stone floors and stainless steel tables.

It was the worst I had in India and I even left the food which, for an ex-public schoolboy is close to a crime. Don't trust a modern restaurant and certainly not somewhere where you can't see them cook!

We continued in convoy through gathering settlements and into Thekaddy as it started to rain. The hotel was a pleasant surprise. On the edge of seeming chaos and down a steep hairpin drive to park the bikes almost under the main road. A quick check-in, down some steps and you find yourself on the edge of the jungle. We faced a large swampy area that forebode of massed insect attacks at dusk. But there were herons hanging around and a treeline about half a kilometre away. At least I could get the binoculars out and sweep the countryside, more in hope than expectation. But it was something to do and the deer grazing on the edge of the treeline were something to pretend we were interested in.

I wanted to write and turned down the opportunity of a swim, which was lucky as it was apparently 2 octaves cold. For guys a change of 2 octaves on entering water is significant. And it doesn't help any semblance of Bullet Boy image!

Michael and Will opted for another massage. I wrote and paralleled with Chris and Tony, sitting around occasionally sharing with the others glimpses into our own wi-fi world. Chris had taken the consumer solution to the imminent danger of insects seeking a free meal from our pasty bodies. He kindly handed out incense sticks, swearing that they would ward off any beast known to man. It didn't seem to be enough to tackle the marsh's multitudes on the porches but we put them in the room anyway.

Michael and Will returned with that massage glow and medium smiles. Since the hotel did mot serve alcohol we mumbled around organising a walk. By the time the faffing was done the rain had started. Being big and brave and strong we got up the nerve to borrow some brollies from reception and set out.

The roads turned into those muddy streams beloved of nature documentaries and French romantic films. Splashing through the street we wove into a shop for Michael to load up again, this time with something that had elephants on. Will and I left Chris and Michael for their elephantine shop. We bravely set out and made it all the way across the road, twice before finding a shop where Will saw a fun jacket for our last night's dinner in traditional dress. A little trying on and a little bargaining later, while Will was admiring himself in the mirror, two unexpected elegant blondes walked in. I told Will how proud I was to have him as my partner and gave him a loving hug! The ladies left abruptly. Resigned to life with the Bullet Boys Will didn't even hit me.

Across the road again we found another shop with a shirt for Will. But the owner was from Kashmir and I started talking about how lovely it was and admiring his Pashminas. The shop was floor to ceiling with scarves. He was thrilled and dug out a suitcase with his extra special quality.

The quality was really superb. I like pashminas. I like cashmere, a lot, but the little cashmere I own Is a scarf, which was a present, and a couple of jumpers which I inherited! Cashmere is an older spelling of Kashmir, which was a single state and is currently half controlled by Pakistan and half by India. There are separatists and bombs and the occasional exchange of artillery fire high up in the Himalayas.

Some twenty years ago I was in Kashmir, on the Pakistani side. Back in days when westerners could go around Pakistan. It is a stunning place, so, so far from London and Frankfurt and cities with reliable power and taxes and non-government salaried jobs. My time visiting the most remote villages high in the Himalayas in a helicopter lent by the Aga Khan as a guest of the German ambassador was a massive experience, and one for another story. But in Kashmir I had bought pashminas for the girls in the family. Some 80 x 120 cm they pass through a wedding ring. Now that's fine. But not the finest.

So here we are in the semi tropical south of India, a long way from the Line Of Control, an arbitrary dotted line that runs through the savage terrain of the highest mountains in the world and we're looking at this young man's fine cashmere.

We talked of Shahtoosh. Shahtoosh in Farsi means 'king of wools', it comes form the Tibetan Antelope, a protected species under CITES (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species). The antelope have been hunted to near extinction and owning or wearing shawls from the wool is illegal. It's a ripe market for commercial farming but like ivory and most of the trade in endangered species the danger is that a legal supply provides a conduit for illegal supply. And we don't want to lose yet another species.

While I was lost in the luxury of the past and Will was struggling into and out of another shirt we had a message that Chris had sent a tuc-tuc for us, which was waiting outside. I had no idea where we were off to but the boys had found somewhere with beer. We left everything on the counter.

The tuc-tuc rolled up to some hotel gates and the security guard wandered over suspiciously. He saw us and jumped back, we were immediately allowed into the hotel because we were white. It continues to amaze me that just the colour of our skin seemed to give us completely undeserved respect. At least we did not abuse that respect, just each other.

We were in Spice Village, apparently, but from the crunched up back of a tuc-tuc we could have been anywhere with a security guard. It was definitely not a government facility as that would have multitudes of guys with guns milling around. But here we had a barrier and a hut and a guy that let us in with no questions.

We wander into the hotel compound and I blindly follow Will who seems to know what he's doing. I have no idea what communication has gone on between anyone, my head is full of fun and kashmiri wool.

In between tropical plants and up half a hillside we stumbled into a large room that looked just like a large hut. At one end was a long bar stocked well, with an air of colonial about it.

At the other end of the room was a full sized billiard table and all around the walls were old photos and hunting trophies.

But in front of us were Michael and Chris who had commandeered good colonial seats and what seemed to be the tourist version of good colonial snacks and we ordered a couple of beers.

The boys told us that the guy serving us could pour any height of head on the beer we requested. We both asked for about one centimetre of foam and we got exactly one centimetre. He had a great way of cupping the base of the bottle in his hand with the neck pointed back up his forearm. That gives real control over the bottle. Something we have struggled with for years!

We were in fine form, swapping self-deprecating stories and comments and mingling these with mild abuse. Then it is smoke time for Michael and Will, so we have to move outside. We offered our seats to a party of French people who had steadily wandered in and crowded the bar. Offering them the seats in French caused the usual electric shock when people realise that you may have understood their conversation. Luckily for them whatever insults they had used about us were either too quietly spoken or in a slang neither Will nor I could understand. But it's always fun surprising people by speaking their language.

As for the insults foreigners use it was something we were pretty blind to, as we were only abusing each other. And outside over a smoke or two for some reason we had a whale of a time. It worked and it worked well. We only had two beers but the conversation flowed and we had fun. Maybe it was getting away from the group for the first time. Maybe it was the night air. Whatever it was, it was welcome.

Someone got hungry and decided we should head back to the hotel for supper. We went back inside and looked at photos of AW Wilson from the days of the Raj. Dead tigers and stern faces, dead elephants and long dead colonialists. A time long past. One we do not feel guilty about because we weren't there, nor were our fathers, nor or grandfathers.

It was comforting that the hotel was happy to have all these pictures of the past. Whatever ills there were from colonialisation there didn't seem to be any grudge. It was not used as an excuse. India seems to be growing so fast, to be so Indian, it has outgrown those times. That is such a refreshing approach, so now we can enjoy what is there today. And a lot is there today and there is a lot to enjoy.

Leaving the hotel we somehow remember the umbrellas and pattered up the sodden streets till we found a tuc-tuc. From the line of available machines the one at the head of the queue was the one that had taken us to the Spice Garden. So we bargained with him for the fare back then at the end of the trip gave him a 100% tip, which is always a fun way to do business.

We were the last at supper and wandered around another hotel buffet. It was always fun stocking a plate with multitudes of different tasters. They were all good but they somehow seemed to end up a a mush in the middle of the plate by the end. Whatever colours there were starting out, it all ended up brown, as any 5 year old finger painter can tell you. 

It was really not difficult going with the Kerala cut out, which is a silly way of saying that in the State of Kerala the sale of alcohol is highly restricted. So most hotels did not serve booze. But that would probably have been a bad thing for the happy state we were in. We continued having a gas over supper. Fluffy foolishly wandered past and we shanghaied her into suffering our table banter.

She told us about the final day and a boat organised to take us around the lake at Cochi, well the lake and the backwater.

For some reason, probably because of the teenager in him, Michael giggled, then Will started and then it got infectious. Will is highly contagious. The reason for laughing was quickly and completely lost, the laughing took on a life of its own. Viral fun. Poor Fluffy took it in her stride, there was a world we were living in that she did not completely understand, which was smart of her because none of us did.

So we descended to our rooms on the edge of the marsh where legions of nocturnal flutterings clouded our porches. 

There was probably a party in one of the rooms, but it was too hard and seemed a little desperate to go and find it, so it was an earlish night.

Steve had taken a sleeping pill and failed to wake as I bumbled around the room, which reeked of the incense. But just before hitting the sack I turned out the light on our porch, guessing that Chris had left his on. Between the incense stick and the lack of light on our porch we avoided any bites, well any that we noticed.

A Great Big South Indian Adventure 9

High up in the tea plantations, trying to get tea at breakfast took 20 minutes and probably as many requests. Breakfast does not seem to be a specialty but pre-hangover and hungry we end up eating lots. The square omelettes are good and the french toast OK, but when the chai finally arrives it smells of fish according to Michael and the jam is coloured sugar. We manage black tea with sugar, but black tea without never arrives. Tea, white, without, just wasn't possible.

Still, ballast aboard and a little nervous about my biking ability and sociability I went back to the room and started writing some notes. Which today we transcribe.

In the Adventure programme this was as a rest day, which I could certainly use. It was why we had all ended up partying harder than tired middle aged people should last night. But on the trip the boys wanted to bike and Alex, being a superb host and possibly easily bored, laid on a casual informal exploration morning for us. He is obviously as thrilled being on a bike as anyone and on a casual exploration day he and Abi do not have pillion passengers, which means they can go a little faster. But the cars were staying behind, so the drivers, navigators and passenger could catch up on sleep, Marguerite and Gayle were going on a ramble. Steve decided rambling would be better than biking, so did I, but rush to get the bike gear on as the boys started to go. The mornings spin I was not looking forward to, but know I have to do it to get my confidence back. Being an exploration day we do not need our hydration packs, the rucksacks with 3 litre containers for water and re-hydration salts, with a long straw that we carry on the longer scheduled rides. India is hot and biking sweats you up.

Michael Cooke is a star and dazedly, or was that still drunkenly, ferried bike riders up the hill in the antique Ambassador he is driving on the tour. He drives Michael Hobbs and I up the hill, where we have a pre ride briefing and Michael's crown falls out.

Of course deep in Deep Woods, just about to start a day's biking, is not the optimum place fpr. Crown to fall out. I guess nowhere is really, but this is low down the list of unwanted embuggerances. So after a quick winge and even quicker debate he tucks the errant crown away and we continue with the briefing. 

We don't know where we're going but if we turn left at the top of the road we might come to a village.....it was that sort of briefing.

My bike starts first time, hurray, then stalls and takes ages to start again so I am again at the back trying to play catch-up on a very steep hill with a stalling bike and a potholed gravel road.

As expected it is not fun. It gets worse. The ride is what Chris later astutely described as a black run. The potholed road narrowed, lots of dry sand encroached on the sparse remaining tarmac and we soon got on to steep hills with vicious hairpins. None of this was made any easier by the bike stalling, the gears going into neutral all the time, with the neutral light and the horn not working, and being on my own. All the uncertainties of route, ability, bike and attitude crowding my confused mind did not help.

So as an exercise is getting the confidence back this was less than productive.

Some time later I caught up with the boys at a photo stop and walked up to Alex, who had been waiting a while and was raring to go. I wanted to tell him about the challenges with the bike, but he rode off, presumably mistaking my 'Stop' hand signal for a 'Hi, tosser's finally made it', which was true but not the intended message.

Dharmender the magic mender adjusted the carburetor to stop the stalling and the back up jeep followed my unsteady pace far to the back of the pack. The lonely duckling that's just never going to catch up, the one the moorhens and water rats watch with evil eyes.

So half an hour later when I finally caught up with the pack again at the chai stop I was not in a banter mood, which everyone had guessed by the time I got there. Tolerant silence like polite parents dealing with a petulant child in a public place.

Dharmender adjusted the bike for the horn and showed me how to get the bike into neutral. It was quite simple, all I had to do was change down gears as much as possible, letting the clutch out between each gear change. Then rock the bike, change down again, tap the lever to half change up and there you are. Probably. But since the neutral light didn't work you couldn't be certain. Simple really, but not what is expected.

Michael took a very strange photo of his missing crown. Very pink and fleshy, we probably won't show it to spare our gentle readers' sensitivity, but we all offered our opinion as to its medical character, among other astute observations.

After the chai the plan was to go into the local town Munnar, which meant going back some of the way we came and turning off on some track at some stage. I hadn't spotted any turn off. This seemed a single track road in a narrow valley to a single village, but maybe I had other stuff on my mind on the ride down.

The better riders rushed off. Chris and Abi followed me on the way back, while I rode like a girl, not a woman, a girl. The bike kept going into neutral instead of second gear which meant I was starting hairpin bends at very low speed. So it was just a long and weary process.

Eventually we saw Gayle, Margerite and Steve who were walking up the road. We stopped to say Hi, but I was in a funk and would only say the wrong thing, so did not stay long.

I wanted to go back to the hotel but didn't say anything so we continued on expecting to find the others.

We ended up in Munnar without finding them and stopped in a highly visible spot on the main road in town. Chris gave me a welcome hug, which was a big help, then he and Abi tried phoning the others, while I made myself useful and went searching for coffee. Eventually I found a shack on the high street and while they were making the coffee I popped next door into a shop that was so narrow I had to go down it sideways, but it sold spices, beer and wine. That was registered for future reference, since the hotel did not serve alcohol. But buying breakable bottles of booze to take back in the saddlebags was not a sensible option given my, and the bike's, ability.

Munnar was weird because although it is a good sized town, we kept seeing white people, which was a little disconcerting. They appeared in odd places, drifting along the street or sitting at the back of restaurant type places, but like wraiths they fast faded fast from view as I strode on. Apparently Munnar is on a tourist trail. 

Back at the bikes no one had answered their phones so while we drank the coffee Abi asked about the multitude of problems with my bike, then he had a fiddle with it. He failed to find the neutral light and concluded that most of the issues were because of a low battery and a loose clutch. Bike Whisperer Abi. 

He finally got a call and arranged to meet the mechanics, then led us back through the town towards the hotel.

There is a church on a hill in Munnar, highly incongruous, as if cut and pasted from a different story set in a different time. It's made of big rough hewn granite blocks and has the sturdy look of a Scottish kirk. Below it, at the side of the main road is the Infant Jesus Tyre Works. Memorable name for a tyre shack.

We took the turn off for the valley road to the hotel and saw Steve, Gayle and Margerite who had struggled some way to almost make it to town. We told them it was not far but they vowed to take a tuc-tuc for tueir journey back. They'd done some 13 km by then.

We finally found the back up truck. The other group had gone to the hospital, which I assumed was for Michael's crown and we continued back to the hotel. 

Having seen the kirk and the grassy golf course valley even the weather seemed Scottish. Sunny, without being hot and that tinge of moisture in the air that makes you feel chilly as soon as a cloud envelopes the sun. A comforting feeling, like being on a place you think you should know. The eastern side of the Mull of Kintyre, or a nook of Northumbria.

Back on that narrow valley road the tea girls were waving at us, one even blew me a kiss, which was very unexpected and brought a ray of sunshine into my turgid day.

The entrance road to the hotel had not changed so I had to use my brake, throttle and clutch all at the same time. The bike took a lot of verbal abuse.

Chris and I had a shower before wandering up for some excellent fried rice at the restaurant, he had found the roads hard and I liked his black run analogy. After a casual lunch we wandered back for a siesta. I did not sleep, just wrote a bit, lay down and felt very sorry for myself.

I did not have the will or the energy to get up and join the enthusiastic voices that announced the return of the others around teatime. Certainly there would be no tea and probably there would be some justified ribbing about my attitude to the bike.

However half an hour later, failing to find any worthy alternative, I wandered down to find Tony had come off his bike, badly, passed out, been to hospital and had a full check up. He said it was rider error, good tack I thought. He was undertaking a tuc-tuc and was attacked by a large pothole. He ended up hitting the ground hard on his back with the bike falling on him. When the team got the bike off him and pulled him up he remembers a huge amount of pain, which is probably what made him pass out.

He was high on adrenaline and painkillers and telling the story. My late arrival meant he had to tell it again, lancing the boil by talking about the actual accident. But he was highly impressed by the quality of the hospital, the fact he was seen immediately and that the cost of a full check up and painkillers was 370 rupees. €5.

We had not seen the spill because we'd ended up on a different road. But at least Abi had been responsible for that choice as Chris and I remained clueless. I was very happy we had not gone the other way because at least Abi had given my bike a good lookover.

That evening's drunken revellry was a pale reflection of the previous night. Michael Cooke had gone on a booze run. Supper was fairly sedate though Alex organised some chille beef, which he offered round. It was delicious and reluctantly passed on.

Over supper Will was coaxed into talking about his plane and helicopter pilot's licences. We left him with his rapt audience and did the usual Bullet Boy jokes from the safety of the sidelines.

Most people drifted off wearily to bed. I was not in sleep mode and stayed up till the early hours, slowly regaining some semblence of a sense of humour, ribbing with Alex and hearing more life stories. Sometime round about one in the morning the hardy few left Michael Cooke dancing to his own tunes.... 

So to sleep, perchance to dream, of anything but the day ahead.

A Great Big South Indian Adventure 8

From Kodaikanal, it was a glorious ride down the hill with the bike working well. Dharmender had stripped the gear box and reassembled it in the early hours of the morning.

I had a wonderful time being in tune with the bike and the road. Gliding round potholes, following Alex's professional line, way to the left on the right hand bends and over to the right on the left handers. Maximising the line of sight and concentrating on 'the triangle', the furthest point of the road you can see. Slowing when it gets closer and speeding up as disappears off in the distance. We took the same road down we'd ridden up with such gusto. The potholes eased off and the road was broader and in good condition as we swung past the bhaji stop of much fame and little spend, then down through the hairpins, scraping the pegs and in the groove. Full of happy adrenaline, roaring along, happy to be at the front of the pack.

A little light flashed 'cocky son' so I stopped where we'd taken the photos two days before and the Bullet Boys soon rode up. So we had a smoke and a pee and a banter. and for once the bike starts first time...the boys felt my elation!

On our way up two days before, Will had taken a big interest in the tribal village at the bottom of the hill, so I was looking forward to seeing it properly. It was so easy to miss the details when you're not so good on the bike, but looking around second time,round, it was fascinating, from the bare earth floors, to the women carrying huge bundles of sticks on their heads and the free roaming peacocks.

Chris wanted a photo op at a road sign that said Elephant Crossing. We found a cameraman by stopping an unfortunate passing moped with a couple of guys on it. Presumably they guessed we weren't robbers, just normal white guys in body armour. 

In exchange for them taking the photos, theŷ asked us to pose with them, which we were very happy to do. Out came their cameraphones and we were probably laughed about over lunch, or we're posted somewhere on a Facebook page, 'photo of the unknown bikers', or something. It was a struggle giving them some money, but it would probably pay for a week's worth of petrol on the moped, so they they gave in graciously.

We rolled in to the same chai stop of two days before, with the same wonderful and welcome chai. After our long late morning snack we got on a big road, which was pretty unusual on this trip and soon were racing along in open traffic having a wonderful time. One of the few days where it felt anywhere near safe to get up to 60 or even 70 mph!

Some time later with the wind fresh in our helmeted hair we entered a melee of a town. There were no signs and no major paved roads going where we wanted to, so getting out involved dirt tracks and dust, backways and bumps. In rugby terms, nobody called for a ruck, so it remained a maul.

But we found our way out and after a while were into a big nature reserve. This one had barriers and khaki uniformed guards who wanted our bike number plates and it all looked very official. We moved the mayoral chains that were decorating the bikes, just enough to uncover number plates, none of which we knew.

But it was a chance for the back markers to catch up and the group to reassemble, so we could set off into the wilderness in convoy.

The road narrowed and holes appeared and trees reduced the line of sight and bends got sharper. We were being ingested by the jungle. But it was lovely scenery and lots of green.

As we got more confident the Bullet Boys had been stopping more often for photos and just because we could.

Ian had been doing this for days. Presumably he needed an excuse to ride at his capability level, which was a lot faster than us novices. So he would stop and buy a decoration for the bike, or take photos, or take it easy. Then he could be like Abi and scoot up the convoy which lumbered along at its merry pace.

Of course a couple of minutes after our photo stop we came across Alex and a regroup with a much better view. Luckily this was on a bend in the road, so our parked bikes cut the road down to a single lane, on a bend. But out came the binoculars to eagerly scour the steep valley below and the savanna of the hill across from us, and the river and the waterfall and any other likely place for wildlife. But nothing, still it was fun trying.

While we smoked and chatted and waited a stray dog, skinny with floppy dugs and a mangy coat came cagily by. She got fed biscuits and was patted and photographed and probably doubled her lifetime love quota.

We then had a fuss about, holding up letters fpr a H A P P Y H O L I D A Y S photo, but apparently one of the letters was upside down, so we will probably never see the photo. Arranging everyone in a line on the side of a narrow road with a steep drop below us and no safety rail was just par for the course really. Vidyha was perched on a rock above us and cheerily snapped away as we disturbed the traffic.

After that it was up and up, into the tea plantations. On a hairpin was a white car with a smashed-in front, waiting for a tow. No major injuries visible, just people hanging around at the side of the road. They did not have signs and were not posing for photos, so we meandered around the wounded car and soldiered on.

The Bullet Boys continued to stay close, so it was easy to find an excuse to stop for a chat and a smoke and take photos of waterfalls and tea pickers. It was noticeably cooler with a barely visible mountain mist shading the hillsides.

One of us, a currently unnamed non-trainee biker, to be more precise, was gazing up the hill at the tea pickers, and burst out with, 'Cor, I'd do the one in brown'. Michael cried out 'Filming'. We gulped into embarrassed silence as his GoPro video swung along the group of ladies high on the hill, snipping away at the tips of the tea leaves.

We rode on up, high into the hills and the mist thickened as we stopped on a bluff where the tea pickers were close to the road. Its an excellent spot for photos of them, plus this wonderful video that gives an idea of the atmosphere, with what sounds like an Enfield Bullet puttering away in the background.

For one of those strange deja vu, premonition reasons that haunt me every so often, I wanted to get a move on and not be left behind. The leaders had set off as us Bullet Boys had rolled up. I left fairly quickly to follow Abi. The mist got worse and soon we had the lights on as the visibility dropped. Steadily we wove around the bends and the potholes and through the thickening mist that seemed to come in lumps where you could suddenly only see a few yards and were surprised by a tree lurching out of the gloom, or a drop looming that may be a couple of metres or a couple of hundred.

Then we started to descend and slowly emerge from the mist. Abi raced off and I realise it is faster than I can go.

So I slow down and start looking for a good spot for another photo while waiting for the Bullet Boys. Coming down the hill there was a group of young Indian guys taking photos, they smile, I wave and look up to see a bad patch of broken road. I brake and change fast down into second, but get neutral instead.

So I ended up with a bad line on the rough patch, too far right and with a blind right hand bend. As the broken road finishes I pull hard left, braking, trying to get out of the way of anything coming round the blind corner. But I was too heavy with the rear brake and the road had a covering of dry coarse sand. Scree alert. Back wheel slide. Rider error and down we go. Hard.

The armour Michael had given me works well, as does my helmet which took enough of a bash to displace various vents and levers.

The brake pedal was completely bent and useless. The headlight cover ruined, engine oil was leaking and I was shaken and embarrassed. The young guys ran over and helped me get the bike up and off to the side of the road. They found my phone that had slide out and dusted me down. A good crew. Of course I was not thankful enough and very defensive, but at least the only permanent damage was to the bike and my pride.

The others arrived a few minutes later. They slow down on seeing me, so don't have trouble with the rough patch or the sand.

I wave them through as they can't help and I haven't sorted out in my head what had happened, let alone had a chance to line up my excuses. 

Will stops for a chat. He's good. I guess he was just checking for concussion or more serious side effects but instead Dr. Hill only found stupidity. He seemed happy enough to continue on and I was happy to be left with my tumultuous thoughts.

I talked to the Indian guys and waited for Steve and the mechanics, which sounds like a band but was more of a group, being short of musical instruments.

Waving Steve on, I apologised to Dharmender for messing up his bike and have a smoke to calm down.

Dharmender worked his magic changing the brake lever, refilling the oil and checking the bike out all in about 15 minutes. Lovely rides the bike down the road add back to test it, then I'm allowed back on.

Confidence shaken I carefully ride another 5 or 10 kms, arranging my excuses into a coherent order for the inevitable barracking. Learning from Aesop's fable of Timothy and the Nettle I walk up to the assembled group  saying "rider error" and give a brief rundown. At least they kindly ask if I'm OK before the shit started!

It felt a long ride to get to the hotel and my bike kept sliding into neutral between all the gears.

It is hard to have any confidence when that happens. So tired and dispirited and all out of sorts I barely notice the quiet valley with grassy banks leading to a deep-cut stream. Gorgeous for a few holes of golf, Scottish style, just cutting the grass and dealing with the inconsistencies of the land by tailoring a seven iron for a lay-up shot. But that was a brief bright spot for a mopey git on a bike.

Lacking confidence the last thing I needed was the road down to the hotel, chunky gravel and steep, so I struggle down it using brake, throttle and clutch at the same time. A steady stream of quiet Anglo Saxon kept me going till we got to reception.

I could really use a stiff drink, but instead we having a general milling around while waiting for check-in, then a long walk down to our rooms. I am a bit out of it and slouching along at the back of the group. We are quarantined in a block of six rooms, well away from the main buildings. Steve luckily and picks the only twin room. We have not had to share a bed yet, unlike the other Bullet Boys.

In the room I strip off to see the 'damage', which is just a bleeding elbow and a scratched shoulder. A wash for the elbow with bottled water with lashings of Savlon later and the bags have arrived. They seemed to get down the hill on a hand cart. That was very welcome, not having to lug them.

The shower works, which apparently is not the case in the other rooms. So Steve did well. It was a fairly sparse place and not having a shower would be a bummer.
Anyway a wash and a couple of plasters, for my elbow and my ego, then downstairs to hang out with Chris who has moved all his room furniture outside to the space around a fire pit.

Alex arrives with whisky, I light a fat Cuban, well a Montecristo No. 5, which is fat enough for me, and the others steadily arrive. More room furniture arrives and we joke about starting a fire with it.

An hour and a couple of bottles of Indian whiskey later the group is in merry form, but the boys are spoiling for a ragging so I sit apart and try to minimise contact with them, as I'm not up to it. Which probably made me look more of a mopey stuck up prick than a mature individual, but it was the easiest option.

We have apparently paid for a fire, which takes ages to light. Seven hotel staff tie the sticks tightly to an upright metal pole fixed in the firepit. They then use gallons of fuel to create big flames but the wood does not burn. It is wet and there is not enough space for air. Amateurs with fuel.

Alex's iTunes are in full flow and there's a lot of singing gong on, with lusty renditions of the chorus and snatches of the lyrics in between. I become the subject of 'You're So Vain' in tones to make Carly cry but the energy levels are up and fun is to be had.

By the time food is ready, the boys are roaring so I opt to stay in the restaurant up the hill, while they take their food back down to the fire.

At least it gave me the chance to learn a lot more about Ian and Gayle, which continues when we go back down to the fire. It is extraordinary the different paths we have all taken to arrive on a charity bike tour of South India. But taken them we have and here we are.

Round the fire, Chris starts with a couple of rugby songs and we all start losing our voices.

The music continues with half remembered songs and Chris casually chucks a chair on the fire. You can take the boy out of the rugby tour but you can't tale the rugby tour out of the boy!

Tony rescues the chair and Sarah gives Chris feedback in the form of 'you fucking twat' and the party livens with Tony starting the dancing. A bit of dancing, a bit of singing and a lot of talking serious rubbish and laughing serious laughs, especially after a toke and we finish the beer and then more of the spirits and people drift off. 
We were all drunk so I certainly slept the sleep of the dead and woke slowly to a post dawn chorus of Chris' cheery chatter. The man has the cat like quality of Tigger in the early morning. We are probably still a bit drunk and make enough noise with our manly banter to get the others up.

Organising tea and coffee to quench our dehydration is a long and arduous process. Lots of head shaking from the poor man in charge of our block and five attempts later the staff bring two small pots, one with chai and the other with sweet coffee.

That is enough for a couple of cups but there are more if us, so we order lots more. Twenty minutes later Alex appears, checks we all made it through the night and wanders up to see if breakfast is ready yet. He signals down that grubs up so we wander up to find the large pots of coffee and tea we'd ordered several times, several minutes before, about to be brought down. Stupidly we do not take them out of the guy's hands because they disappear, never to be seen again.

And so starts another day...