A Great Big South Indian Adventure 13

The alarm went off at 4:15 am, but on the time scale for where we would finish the day it was quarter to midnight. I'd persuaded the Boys that 30 minutes from wake up to assembly was 15 minutes too many and we could leave at 4:30 instead of 4:15, hopefully gaining 30 minutes of kip.
We must have been ready to leave for home if the day before we'd spent 10 minutes discussing the next days alarm call. Anyway a shower, cup of tea were easy, plus there was a last minute change of trousers. The night before I'd laid out tight bikers jeans but putting them on remembered DVT. Then again I have heard so little of Deep Vein Thrombosis in the last decade, maybe it faded away or everyone takes precautions so it is another life threatener from history. Anyway changing trousers made the cases hard to reclose so a repack was needed.

I still had to wait 15 minutes for the others. They were presumably working on Indian or Italian time. Anyway standing in the lobby the usual feeling mixture welled from the depths, a combination of 'told you so' and 'where on earth are they, do I have the right time/day/place?'. 

There was another demand for us to pay wifi, this time from the night porter. We downright refused. I have no idea if it was a scam, or incompetent management. An argument at 4:30 does not start the day well and certainly does not leave you with an overwhelming sense of benevolence to the hotel.

Our drivers were early and efficient and had some fun on the semi-deserted streets going in to Cochin International Airport. Chris and I came up with the usual hand signals to greet Michael and Will as they passed our taxi and we passed theirs. 
It was interesting talking to Chris and getting his views on the trip. We managed to have a mini-moan about a few things but were still on a high. Looking back on it all now, it feels as though I was drugged by this time, everything was happening as if in a dream. Maybe that's what time does to memories, it dulls them into a dream. 

But we chatted and got to know each other a lot better in that ride than we had in the previous two weeks. Of course I felt the return of mild guilt as I understood more about where everyone else was coming from, rather than just thinking about me and my position. But so much of the trip was about that, getting away from MeMe.

The time seemed to pass quickly and we had enough to talk about so, did not end up in the particularly English conversational cul-de-sac of searching hard for innocuous topics to fill the silence. Our 2 hour taxi ride left us 3 hours early at the airport and we arrived as dawn was breaking.

Bags unloaded, taxis tipped. So far, so good.

Then we struck the part about not being let in.

To get into the main airport building you needed a ticket. On the way to India Emirates was so impressive, you could download your boarding pass onto your iPhone, which I loved and still had under a rarely visited part of the phone called Passbook. 
Checking in for these flights a few days before, in India, had not given us this option, so I was expecting to get the pass at the check-in desk. The check-in desk was the far side of a bloody minded soldier/bureaucrat.

Michael and Will were well prepared with lots of paperwork. Chris and I were not. The soldier at the front door pretended to consult passenger print outs, but actually put a bunch under his desk. He would not let us in. 
Presumably he was one of those who wanted to show the full power of his job by being bloody minded. Such a shame after the superb service we had experienced during the trip.

So Chris and I built up a fair line behind us as we try to talk our way through. I manage to curb my indignant temper as that would definitely not help here. We eventually went to Plan B and found out what the back-up procedure was, then walked off to the external ticket office.

Chris stopped at the manager's office, sensibly leaving my irascible self guarding the bags outside. He professionally steered through the procedural maze and got a manager to accompany us back to the obstruction at the door.

A massive new shiny airport of international standard, with a crusty old creaking bureaucracy to stifle the fun out of life. 

The helpful manager managed to find the list the guard had thrown away and there we were, clearly marked.

Battle hardened we walked into the large terminal. There were some 20 metres to the check in desks but Michael and Will were easy to spot, they were just about the only people in the departures area. 
The airport's business model was non traditional. The large space between the outside doors and the check-in desks would normally be filled with friends and finally saying goodbye. But the ad-hoc ticket check at the door meant only passengers were in the building, so the whole area was a waste of space. There were a couple of unvisited shops and a room with items of what appeared to be lost or stolen luggage sitting in small piles and as we walked in a coffee stall where Bullet Boys could regroup!
We had a coffee and Chris and I accepted the inevitable comments on our organisational ability, while I quietly fumed at the incompetence of it all.
We made it safely across no-mans-land to check in, which was a really simple procedure. We are seasoned travellers and Emirates is a seasoned airline. Plus we were so early there were no queues. Michael and Chris failed to get Will or I into business class, but they tried.
We then trekked as a group to a series of checkpoints with our carry-on luggage, which for me was my hydration pack, but the others had handbags and helmets. 

At the third passport check the next soldier/clerk in line was officiously waiting behind a console, in front of which sat some hand luggage. Being security conscious I told him there was an unclaimed bag to which the clerk said "somebody must have left it". Between the fourth and fifth stamps on our boarding passes, where the bags and passengers were screened for the first time, another mournful suitcase sat unattended as people filed by.
The bureaucracy to security ratio was the worst I have seen this side of the 1980's, when I used to get on planes with a sheath knife and you could sit with the pilot during the flight. But this was more managerial incompetence. A triumph of process over purpose.
I was actually a little nervous until we had cleared the area.

We found the Mildly Important Person lounge and surged in on Michael's out of date priority pass. Luckily no one wanted to stop us.

There was good coffee and omelettes and after we had scavenged food we repaired to the lounge room where we continued with our repertoire of obscene references and bad jokes.

The lounge was a wonderful holdover of the days of snobbery. People trying to look important while rustling through newspapers (remember them?) and getting ready to harrumph at the unseemly behaviour of four middle aged men who were not wearing ties or jackets. Although we did not mean to cause offense, we were just oblivious to our fellow travellers so yobbery met snobbery, without even noticing!

On the Dubai leg, poor Will ended up in a seat next to me. We spent most of the flight chatting and being boys. Luckily the air hostesses did not hear our compliments about them, especially their similarity to energetic actresses in short films that friends of ours had allegedly seen on the internet.
The banter was pretty incessant and at one stage Will was threatening to write a blog about sitting next to me. Luckily he fell into a brief nap before pen hit paper, or hand hit keyboard.

We disembarked pretty smartly in Dubai and had to wait while the 'front of the plane' duo finally struggled into the main area. 
Some group retail browsing degenerated into us trailing Michael who managed to lead off. Fairly soon Chris and Will got bored of waiting around and went for an international coffee. Michael finished gazing at more completely essential stuff we regrouped, again, at a coffee shop, again.
This time the large space around the back of the retail area provided enough room for Chris to provide the entertainment - a full scale reenactment of his dirt track incident, swerving around hassled airporteers on his imaginary Bullet.
The tale was no less excusable in full and graphic detail, so he stayed with the 'Dirt Track' moniker.

Will left the group first to catch his plane, carefully leaving his helmet at the table. We found it as we all got up a few minutes later and a few minutes too late to give it to Will. So Chris, as usual, stepped up to the plate and took it back to Blighty as his third item of hand baggage.
Michael and I split up on entering our Romeward plane and I managed a quiet 3 seats to myself again, even though the flight was pretty full. But the soldier training kicked in and I got a couple of hours kip scrunched up across the seats with slippery airline pillows sliding stealthily to the floor and the aisle and the seats behind.
We were tired when we met up after landing. Michael had sensibly arranged for valet parking and we called for the car as we saw our bags come off the reclaim belt. So we only had a few minutes wait in the cool Rome night air before cramming dirty bedraggled luggage into a clean Beetle. Michael drove, though he was obviously tired. The best way to spur him on was to occasionally offer to drive myself. His knuckles seemed to whiten on the wheel and another surge of adrenaline kept him going for the 3 hour trip across the mountains.
At least I stayed awake and we talked most of the way. Almost none of it was about future plans or obligations. There was no need to let reality intrude on our happy mood. 
It was 23 hours of travelling and sometime round about half-past-late when we got to my place. My daughter Steedley got up to greet Daddy. That was really good, but she had school the next day to I did not want to keep her up for too long. Michael accepted a glass of water and set off to complete his last 5 miles without major incident.

So the travelling side was done, but the memories were fresh, the blog had to be written and life had to be settled back into. 
It took a few days to worry about the little things. It has taken a few weeks to finish writing about the trip. Meanwhile the thoughts and memories have been left to season.
But those are for the epilogue. 

A Great Big South Indian Adventure 12

Our thunderous final rev up subsided and we posed for some final photos in an easy flowing trance like state.
I was definitely in a dreamworld, beaming away and endomorphined up to the eyeballs.
The photos were so worthwhile, to seal the occasion, to show what an achievement it was, to leave us with something more concrete to trigger our memories. We all look so overwhelmingly happy.
Luckily this was all planned and executed by Alex and Fritha. They understand these things and without creating a fixed point our memories would wander like wisps of smoke driven by our own narrow view, failing to capture the totality of the occasion.
But beyond the armchair philosophy it is good looking back and the photos capture the elation really well. And to misquote Robbie Burns just look at the broad bricht sunlicht Knights.

One reason it was easy to enjoy the whole Adventure was that Alex had a well organised support team. They were always there when needed, up before us mending bikes, transporting the luggage and being our safety net. They must have sorted out multitudes of problems that we never knew existed. Support like that gives you the chance to go on to bigger and better things.

In India there were always legions of people there to help and that makes it so much easier to appreciate the country. You do not see everything they do so it is important to remember their contribution to that enjoyment.

We had a whip round and the support team certainly deserved our generosity, not least from me after all the work they put in with the mess I caused!

After the photos Alex had presentations for them. Lovely got a huge cheer, for being Lovely, as did Dharmender, for ensuring we could ride every day. It is good to see them beaming away.

After the photos I wandered dazed into the hotel's highly polished hardwood open lobby which looked onto Lake Vembanadu about 100 metres away. The well kept lawns of the hotel grounds were sliced by small drainage channels, barely wide enough for a punt. One of these channels reached into the reception area, as modern architects would have it, integrating inside and out.

We were greeted by beaming smiles and very welcome welcome drinks served in fresh coconuts. They were delicious. Halfway through my second one there was a commotion.
The channel reaching into the reception area ended in a mini dock connected to the highly polished wooden floors by some highly polished wooden steps. Someone had irresponsibly left a canoe tied serenely at the dock.
It was inevitable, a bunch of bikers still on adrenaline, a welcome drink and a canoe.
Chris and Tony bravely set off with Alex lobbing his (empty) coconut at them to raucous cheers.
The entertainment continued as they tried to turn the canoe in the very narrow channel. then Tony lobbed his valuables onto the lawn and we knew.
They did, they tipped the boat. With a lot of cheering and jeering and loud feedback they arrived back in reception where the staff quickly arrived with towels to minimise the damage to their modesty, as they stripped off, and to the polished reception floors they were going to drip muddy water all over.

The check-in procedure was almost immediate after that, but the stroll to the rooms seemed long, even though the hotel staff were bringing our bags. We were tired.
The rooms looked luxurious, certainly well above my standard, but Steve and I had a double bed which wasn't going to work. He trudged back to reception to see what they could do. The only twin room was in the bowels of the hotel next to a drainage channel. It was damp and the corridor carried the heavy scents of tropical degradation and damp towels, but we took it.
After a welcome shower and change of clothes I went to get a wi-fi code. At reception there was a long and hard argument about paying for internet. We do not pay separately for water or electricity. Today internet is the same. I had to get snotty and said that I had over 16,000 readers of my TripAdvisor reviews and I was not happy. I got the code but it was not a happy victory, I hope hotels stop this racket.
The internet would work in reception, but not in our room. It was all tedious, especially as I had started publishing the blog and people were asking for more and I didn't want to be sitting alone in reception with a beer. It doesn't look good, Boozy Blogger No Mates.
I gave up and went for a swim where Fritha and Sarah were on top of the beer ordering system which was very welcome. Fritha was wearing a frangipani flower she had found under a tree. A tree I had passed earlier at had not noticed the flowers. Typical. The frangipani looked very tropical and suitable and lovely.
There was not much time to wallow in the pool before we had to get back and get ready for the last night dinner, but on the way back I liberated all the fallen frangipani and left them at the doors of various rooms.

This was the celebration supper, the occasion for us all to wear traditional Indian dress. The outfit I had bought on the second night in Mysore was entirely made of oil derivatives and seemed designed to cause profuse weight loss in the heat, so that was discarded in favour of the semi-casual cotton goodies I'd picked up in Coimbatore. Good choice.
As usual my efforts at glamour involved a shower and possibly a hair wash, I may even have found a comb, but that is by no means certain.
We assembled for the dinner and it was really good to see how other people had made an effort. The ladies looked radiant and the guys looked assertively nervous. 

The flowers were for the Bullet Boys as well, which suited Michael rather better than it should have. He looked like he was wearing mascara, which suited his pale blue shawar kameez.

It seemed a lot more civilised than usual and we even opted for wine rather than beer which calmed the nerves rapidly. At least there were photos as evidence and the smiles remained radiant.

With more drinks and, presentations it steadily hit home, I have a Nomadic Knight t-shirt, a Nomadic Knight certificate, an Adventure Ashram certificate. We really accomplished something. 

Before dinner and the descent into darkness Chris showed his touring experience and quietly took the t-shirts and certificates into his care until the next morning. Whatever happened later we wanted to take our trophies home.

We sat outside behind mosquito netting but outside the air-con. Some ceiling fans would have been good and at least I was wearing cotton and not the maroon stripey rayon robes (perspiration for the purpose of).
As expected after another good Indian buffet we wandered out to the lake's edge and indulged in music of our era, trying to remember all the words to 'Come On Eileen' and other classics of the time. Reality caught up with willingness and people drifted off to bed fairly early. The stalwarts went for Karaoke in Room 201.
I couldn't find the energy to move from the table and ended up with poor Marguerite suffering my usual debating position when drunkenly talking with Brits, defending immigration and Europe. It always gets a good discussion going!

I do remember waking up to find Steve had come back and got to sleep, so much for the razor sharp edge to the man of action, alert to the slightest noise.... 

Since there was no wifi in the room around dawn and hours before anyone else would be up, I went to write in reception. The scene of the previous days rumbunctious bikers held a stillness that foretold early morning mosquitoes. Given my mildly thick head and unwillingness to move a lot, the bloodsuckers were thankfully mostly hibernating, or teetotal.

Writing was writ and people arrived and breakfast was a pleasant buffet with a really good marsala omelette. Having an upbringing where devilled kidneys were praised in theory but not practice I was completely unused to a spicy breakfast. But there in India it just seemed right. In the same way that to Anglo-Saxons it would be blasphemy, to Italians leaving wine in the bottle at a restaurant seems right.

The breakfast time of day saw everyone online, loading photos and updating friends, family and other Facebookers. Tony had messed up pre-trip and booked himself a return flight from Bangalore, so he had to leave early. Chris seemed sorry to see him go, which was actually comforting.

Alex had organised a large sumptuous boat to drift us around the lake and sneak into those backwaters that caused so much merriment in Thekaddy. This being Kerala, where booze was banned or at least discouraged, Alex had sensibly organised a large cooler filled with cool drinks, some of which were not beer.

We languidly lazed around in this large boat, keeping to the lake's edge. At least we were moving, and near the water, so it was fairly cool. In the summer back in the day, before air-con and internet, it must have been a life saver. 
As expected along a lake's edge there were many summer houses of wealthy people. The houses were widely spaced with big gardens. But the jungle green was interspersed by splashes of colour and action as washer women beat clothes at the water's edge. These were probably not the owners.

There were a few other boats on the water, with well-to-do people, like us enjoying the superiority of being well-to-do. We waved to some and some waved back, but it didn't feel a very wavy or friendly occasion. Perhaps superior people don't wave.

We drifted into a tiny dock to let Alex and Vidyha bargain for lake langoustines. These are somewhere between a prawn and a lobster. These guys were fresh, we only hoped their food had been fresh as well. Fluffy got involved and given her daring bathing suit this earned her the moniker of Prawn Star.

The crustaceans were handed to the boat's chef, who was probably also the pilot, which is how Chris got to drive. His merchant navy days may not have been severely tested but it gave him something to do while the rest of us were chatting and searching for interesting things to talk about with fellow Adventurers we would not see tomorrow.  

The lake was still and the boat seemed silent, apart from our babble. Fish eating birds perched on poles staring druggedly at the water, a snake shuffled to shore, lillies failed to snag the propeller and we chugged along.

The really cold beers helped with chilling to the 80's music.  It was a time to relax and that was well deserved for Alex and Vidyha. 

By the time lunch was served I was sailing, in several senses, and getting up from the bow of the boat brought on a mild dizziness that meant being careful not to trip or bump into anyone or spill stuff. So I must have been tiddly. Anyway the food was absolutely delicious. Languidly lunching on langoustines. It has a ring to it.

In that restful post lunch lull the trip seemed to be long, but the conversation picked up and suddenly we are back at the dock.

So a shower and a change and then off to reception to write. But I fell asleep instead. A quick siesta, honest, but it didn't help with the blogging. A wonderful cup of tea provided the spark to publish blogs 4 and 5, then the last evening supper. It all felt mellow, with some ragging and bragging and hearty goodbyes, ready for the wake up call at 4 am.

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.