Motorcycle Diaries - VII

A steeply sloped mountain, verdant with thick green forest. Brown slippery mud, with rotten leaves in abundant supply. A stillness in the air, and not a sound for miles around.
On the steep gradient afforded by the mountain, a tarred road cuts its way through the forest. It slopes upwards, now curving dangerously, now gently. It is protected from an increasingly scary fall on its outer side by a small irregularly chipped wall, while on the inner side, it slopes away and into the slope of the mountain.
Today, there is pouring rain. A thick sheet of sleet hangs in the air with a determined inevitability. No chirping of the birds, and no shrieking of the monkeys - which are otherwise omnipresent sounds in this neck of the woods. No vehicles on the road either. The Amboli Ghats lie forgotten in a corner of the Sahyadris, awaiting the dissipation of the monsoons.
Complete loneliness, and nothing to break the soothing monotony.

Slowly at first, and then with greater certainty, one hears the whine of a small engine, straining to the utmost to climb the Amboli Ghat. One can make out that the bike is probably in first gear, second at the most, straining to pull the weights of two rather well built riders.

The bike pulls into view, climbing over the top of a small slope. The rider, a large ungainly specimen, head encompassed by a ridiculously small grey helmet, is festooned in a jacket that has given up the struggle against the rain a long time back. Blue track pants that were never designed to be waterproof cling limply to his legs. Hunched over the pitifully small vehicle, he peers into the unrelenting rain; trying to guess if there is an oncoming lorry or something ghastlier as he cuts yet another corner into that part of the ghat that is a little higher, and therefore a little closer to the as yet unseen summit. Behind him sits another figure, equally wet, and equally ridiculously done up in matters sartorial.

The funereal procession struggles into view, and departs with lumbering, pitiful slowness, until the slow agonized whine of the engine has faded away. The silence of the ghats takes over again, and all is peace and quiet.

Mother Nature chooses to ignore that which is unreal.

And we climb the unrelenting ghat, into the all permeating fog, upwards and higher. The shivering in now punctuated by an involuntary shake of the shoulders, as we climb higher. Every now and then, we see waterfalls, increasing in scope and grandeur as we approach the higher echelons of the ghat. Towards the summit, we see people who have braved the inclement weather to come see the Sahyadris in their monsoon sponsored splendour.

In cars, of course.

But griping aside, the view is stunning. All around us, rise peaks shrouded now in mist and now in wet green. Nestled in the valley below, one can make out, on those rare occasions when the fog lifts, small huts beside fields resplendent in newly sown crop. Waterfalls that tumble down with majestic indifference on the one side flow below the road in cleverly marked canals, and continue their fall to kingdom come below.

If you haven't yet, visit the Sahyadris in the monsoons. Truly a sight to behold.

And ever onwards, at a snail's pace. We can't go faster because our tyres are balder than anything else on the planet - period.

Finally, at long long last, we reach the village of Amboli, after which the ghat is named. Stopping off at a roadside motel, we have a couple of bowls of soup, allowing the engine to cool off after that arduous climb.

It's now two in the afternoon. Belgaum is a 120 kilometers away, Hubli another 100, and Bangalore a cool 360 after that. 660 kilometers to go, so basically, we haven't even started yet.

Oh joy.

On through parts of Maharashtra, lonely quiet roads, mostly smooth, somewhat rough. Villages pass us by in quick succession and we move slowly but surely, into the hinterlands, away from the ghats, and away from the rains.

Ever onwards, unrelenting into the cold grey afternoon, into and beyond Belgaum, finally onto NH4.

From then on, Noel takes over for a spell, and twists the accelerator into full throttle. Having peaked the bike, he does not let go for a full hour and a half, and we finally land into Hubli, at around 6 in the evening.

The rains are finally behind us, and outside of that blessed town, we find that wonderful modern invention, the A1 Plaza.

These modern wonders have a petrol pump, a restaurant, a sit out areas, clean loos, and the lord be praised, hot showers. Noel and I were there for a full two hours. Food, a hot shower, more food, dry clothes, and a perch that is not on a bike.

Heaven, I tell you.

Especially the dry clothes.

You should try it sometime. Get soaking wet for eight hours, and then change into dry clothes. Wah, wah. What the wonderful feeling and all.

And then... then came the long long night.

At seven thirty odd, we started out again.

We were to ride for another thirteen hours.

Coming up next: Home Sweet Home.

Motorcycle Diaries - Page VI

Rains on the coastline are a thing of beauty. There'll be dark, leaden skies, full of dark surly and grey clouds. There'll be a light breeze, and a sharp, tangy coolness in the air, a portent of the downpour to follow. The trees will acquire a surreal hue, and you can practically sense the rain.

And then it starts. One little drop on your wrist, splat! A few more around you, and then hell takes off its seatbelt and goes into overdrive.

All of a sudden, right in front of you, the wind will drop, and it will start pouring with a nimd numbing consistency. Hours on end, a steady sheet of rain envelopes everything around you. Bedraggled birds, bedecked in miserably hung foliage, sit tight on resigned branches. Little rivulets of water that run along on the streets turn into miniature Amazons. Not a soul ventures out onto the streets, and thoughts of hot chai and kanda bhaji abound.

We kickstart the Suzuki and head back to Bangalore.

Normal is boring.

Because.

To be fair, we wited until around ten in the morning, hoping that the downpour that had started overnight would abate somewhat. But when there was no sign of that happening, we commended our souls to the same bunch that had seen us through a couple of days back, bade adieu to Goa and embarked.

And it just rained and rained and rained. Grey sleet, unending and unrelenting. Out of Corvorim, out onto Mapusa, and beyond towards the Maharashtra border. For the plan this time was to climb onto the plateau by using the Amboli Ghat.

Out into that part of Goa that is pretty empty, and certainly non-Goan. On and on and on, beyond the checkpost on either sides of the border.

Through the short but treacherous Insuli Ghat, beyond the last villages on the Maharashtra border and finally into the quaint little town of Sawantwadi.

To get into Sawantwadi from Goa, one passes through a particularly narrow stretch of road, that comes on out onto a particularly beautiful pond. Driving around it's circumference, one reaches the bus stand.

Which is where we stopped to eat cold misal pav and colder vadas. With lukewarm chai.

Prophets that we were, we had decided to get out in the rain wearing the same clothes that we had slept in the previous night. Knowing that we were going to get completely horribly and unbelievably drenched, we planned to stop once we had crossed the ghats, and then change into dry clothing, which would see us through the rest of the trip.

And so we sat there, cold and drenched, eating a cold and bravely cheerful breakfast.

Bangalore seemed a long long way away then. Far enough away to not countenance contemplation. But what I did contemplate, and with a vengeance, were my socks.

There is nothing... nothing, absolutely nothing... that is more depressing than wet socks. Wet anything else is bearable, but wet socks drive you mad. Because when you push your toe against the sole of your shoe, you can feel the water dripping out. When you wiggle all your toes at once, you can feel the water dripping out. When you scrunch your toes in, wishing that the constant shivering would stop, you can feel the water dripping out. And when you get up from the table, and out into the rain, you can feel the water dripping out.

For the next six hours, water was to drip out of the damn socks.

Ah, well. Life is the like that only. Now what is to be doing?

And so we moved out of Sawantwadi, at around 11.30 in the morning, out into the first gentle stretches of the road that leads up to that magnificent panorama of the Sahyadris - the Amboli Ghat.

Motorcycle Diaries - V

Old timers in Goa will tell you that the Chorla Ghat is one of the most picturesque ghats of them all. Although the Sahyadris are overflowing with picturesque narrow roads, that wind their merry, and often arduous, way up the verdant hills in this mountain range, the Chorla Ghats must rank among the best of the lot.

They, the old timers, also speak with a nostalgic chuckle about how the Chorla Ghats were often referred to as "The Old Smuggler's Route". It was a favourite with the smugglers because it was narrow, rutted, and generally unmotorable. Even so, it remains a pretty scenic route to take from Goa, up to a certain resort that has come up in these sylvan surroundings. At the foothills of the ghat is a dam that has also become a bird sanctuary of some repute. Lovely little haven, that neck of the woods, all in all.

But when you ask those old Goans about using the Chorla Ghat to go up to Belgaum, they look at you in some bemusement. It's like asking a Goan about sales tax.

And then their faces clear and they say "Oh, ah! No, no, man. You'll be wanting the Amboli Ghat! That there road is no more motorable. Very rough road there. Cheers, man!"

Slow fade out of the cheery Goan's brown wizened face. Dark menacing music in the background. Gradual blackout.

Fifteen hours in the saddle. A half hour nap in between, and precious else. Aching backs, aching shoulders, aching necks. A bike with no suspension to speak of, and an engine that is beginning to whine. Nothing to be seen for miles. Rough road, no asphalt. Potholes the size of craters. Beautiful scenery, but neither Castellino nor Kulkarni are admirers. Not at the moment.

Two villages passed, with villagers in both places giving us incredulous looks. Estimates of three, four, even five hours given, to reach Goa. Much grimacing and shaking of heads.

And then the Chorla Ghat starts.

I'm riding, with Noel behind me;praying for all he's worth. I have to ensure that we go fast enough to reach Goa in time, and I've to ride well enough to ensure that we do not skid. The road swerves all over the place with gay abandon. Potholes abound, all of them filled with muddy rainwater. Clouds overhead, with the threat of rain imminent. The occasional truck passes us by, about one very hour. Trees all around us, thick unyielding forest. And the bike moves on, kilometer after painful kilometer. Two hours into the ride, and we haven't stopped for a second. There just isn't time.

All sleepiness gone, and we're running on pure adrenalin. When riding, you're focusing on the road, all the time. You first look up ahead, about twenty meters or so, so you can plan the general direction the bike is going to take. Then you look right in front of you, to avoid the latest potential disaster the road throws up. And you wed the two, and you move on. Then the next twenty meters. On and on and on. Pretty soon, you've settled into a nice easy rythym. It's still high alert, and all battlestations are a-go-go, but you get used to the fact that every maneuver could be your last. Every now and then you have to make snap judgments. Do you stop all of a sudden to not head into that suddenly-popped-up pothole, and risk skidding, or do you grit your teeth and head into the water anyway, hoping that it's not too deep? Quickly now, there's not much time. Either ways, you yell out, "Sorry, buddy!".

One, because you are sorry. Two, to check if the bugger is awake.

We bikers gotta watch out for each other.

The light is fading, and the air hangs heavy, like it does when you know it's going to rain. There is a stillness in the air and a coolness on the breeze, and every now and then a rain drop splatters itself all over you, full of portent and all. Your legs shiver involuntarily, and your palms ache.

And you grin, because... hell, what else would you rather be doing, eh?

And then, out of the blue, there appears a rustic tapri and people milling around it. A bus, the Lord be praised, and signs of civilization. We stop for a while, Noel to grab a smoke, I to convince myself that the 206 rods of calcium haven't fragmented themselves into many multiples.

The poor sods at the tapri gather themselves around the bike at look at us in ill-disguised amazement. Logic tells them to not believe us when we tell them we're heading to Goa down this route from Belgaum. Reality taps their stunned shoulders and points out that we could have not come from anywhere else.

Bobbing their Adam's apples, they wonder what to do next. Hesitant grins and some shrugging of shoulders later, they give up and leave us to our own devices. Until one of their tribe looks at our front tire and says "Puncture!"

He says it with a kind of ghoulish glee, as if this finally confirms that we are lunatics of the first order.

I look at Noel and Noel looks at me. We give each other shrugs that would have made Sartre and Camus look like sitcom artists and move on.

See, people, it's the front tire. Not as much of a disaster as the back tire. And see, people, what else were we supposed to do? Conjure up a repair shop in the middle of nowhere?

Heard of the Arab who went to sleep on an acorn in an oasis, and found himself on the top of a newly grown tree when he woke up? Looking around, he says to himself: " Since I cannot adopt circumstances to my will, I shall adopt my will to circumstances".

And he went back to sleep.

Like that only, Kulkarni and Castellino rode on with the flat.

And on and on and on. And then, all of a sudden, we found ourselves on asphalted road. The road was now a regular ghat, with small embankments, and a magnificent view of the Sahyadris, and the promise of Goa at the bottom.

And then it started to rain, and the fog came down.

The uparwala no... full of twists and turns, his stories are.

Top speed, 40 kmph. You look at the little white line that divides the road, and you stay a little to the left of it. As soon as it begins to curve, you curve as well. Honk on the horn until kingdom come. Or the curve turns into a straight line. Focus on the white line and drive onwards and downwards. Repeat until ghat ends.

Once the fog lifted though, which happened about midway on the ghat, the view we were treated to was simply outstanding. The backwaters of the dam were in view, and the rise of the Sahyadris behind, gently sloping curves at first, and then the imposing rise of the sheer rock towards the top, blanketed in gently swirling mists. Ekdum heaven and all that.

We stopped for a while at the end of the ghat, by the backwaters, and then drove on until we found a guy who filled the front tire up to bursting pressure.

Riding on that stopgap measure and little else in terms of endurance, we finally made it into Goa, a full twenty hours after we'd started.

Seven hundred and fifty kilometers of non-stop riding, the wildest ghat ride ever, on a bike that got punctured twice. Accidents that didn't happen, trucks that nearly killed us, rain that chilled out bones, and an engine that refused to die on us.

Without the semblance of a doubt, we told each other that night, the wildest bike ride that we'd ever done. And were ever likely to do, we grinned into our whiskey glasses.

Two days later, we rode back home.

Anticipatory grin firmly in place, ladies and gentlemen?

Comin' right up.

Motorcycle Diaries - IV

Whoever said that the Karnataka countryside is beautiful is an idiot.

I, Ashish Kulkarni, prince of the idiots, will tell you what beautiful is. Beautiful is not the sight of dawn breaking over the mountains when you're astride a bike. Beautiful is your own soft bed, with covers drawn firmly over your head.

Beautiful is not the cool early morning breeze flying past your face. Beautiful is the breeze created by the ceiling fan, speed on 5.

Beautiful is the shutting off of the alarm clock at 7, not counting the number of kilometres to Hubli.

Beautiful is sleep, you dumb dolt.

It's about seven hours since the ride has been underway, and with drooping shoulders, aching back and heavy eyelids, life is not quite so good anymore. There's no singing of songs, no contemplation of the deeper meaning of life, no meandering thoughts. There's exhaustion, pure and simple. Every approaching ditch beckons. You want to park the bike, curl up and let the eyes shut.

But nope. You ride on.

Five in the morning I'd napped for fifteen minutes, while Noel smoked a couple of cigarettes. We had a couple of glasses of chai, and a packet of Parle-G. And I've been at the helm ever since.

And now, when the zombie like situation has you firmly in it's grip, you just pray that your eyes don't shut, and you ride on.

Indian roads have this peculiarity. One knows not why, but they have two hundred meter markers. So every now and then will pop up a small stone, painted yellow on top, stating that, say, Rane Bennur is 200 kilometers away. But then you'll have four white stones up ahead, saying 2, 4, 6 and 8, in that order. Then another stone, painted yellow on top, saying Rane Bennur is 199 kilometers away.

They keep you alive, those little white stones. Pretty soon, on that even, undulating road, you are muttering under your breath, your head nodding in slow cadence, " 2...4...6...8...sigh...2...4...6...8...sigh..."

Oh, you think reading that is boring, eh?

Awww.

Poor you.

Soon, the mind resigns itself to the fact that there is no sleep to be had. The mind adjusts. It shuts off all major operations, and tells major parts of the machinery to take it easy. Hunched up, either riding or sitting at the back, you slip into a slow state of trance, and mile after mile is eaten up.

2, 4, 6, 8... sigh... 2, 4, 6, 8...

That, for the most part, is long range biking. It's not the glory and the glamour. It's just mile after desolate mile of riding.

No, don't ask. I don't know why.

And then came the fateful town of Dhavengere.

The road had roughened up. To begin with, only one side was operational, since the other side was being tarred. And pretty soon, the side that was supposed to be ridden upon wasn't a road at all. Dust and stones, and potholes, with a few large boulders thrown in for variety. Total fun and games, in case you didn't get my drift.

At around nine in the morning, we stopped for breakfast.

A small little dhaba by the side of the road, bare at that time of the morning, fog all around, and a woman to serve us breakfast.

We had two huge aloo paranthas and a plate of bhurji each.

And while we were partaking of the victuals, there came and sat next to us Satan's spawn. Two truck drivers, who chatted of this that and the other.

Friendly enough, they were appropriately awe-struck when we told them that we were riding to Goa. Gratified, we asked them about the best way to head there. Until then, the plan was to drive up to Hubli, and then head into Goa via Karwar.

But they, they of the netherworld, they advised us to head into Goa via Zamboti, using the Chorla Ghat. It would save us at least a couple of hours, they said.

And so it was decided. We would ask our way around, and we would turn off the road, and head into Goa via Chorla ghat.

Big mistake.

But yeah, rode on we did.

On through the little town of Rane Bennur, on through another town called Hubbali... but no sign of Hubli anywhere.

On and on and on. Until at around noon, the two of us gave up. I took the bike to the side of the road, and under the welcoming shade of a tree, Kulkarni and Castellino gratefully curled up and played dead for half an hour.

And on and on again, into and beyond the town of Hubli, stopping only to refuel and to fill up on side oil.

And on and on, until we finally figured out where to turn left for the famed ghats of Chorla.

And then hell took over.