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.