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.