India by Enfield
Ken Partington gets intimidated by monkeys, and disappointed by coconut milk but still has a whale of a time
After a weary 11 hour flight we were picked up at Goa Airport by our two New Zealand guides and driven to a country house. Here five madly barking dogs and a chained monkey guarded our Indian-made 350cc Royal Enfield Bullets. A quick introduction to starting via the valve-lifter/kickstart routine and a short spin down a dirt track to get used to the awful drum brakes (the need to stop an Enfield at a T-junction from seventy can give you a noticeable movement of the bowels, as I later learned). Warnings about the left-hand footbrake and right-hand gear-change finalised the familiarisation process. We each gave about £5 for a kitty for daily food and drink and were then taken to our hotel for lunch and a night's rest.
The next day started before seven with twelve bikes snaking towards the Dandeli Wildlife Sanctuary in the state of Karnataka. Riding over the worst pot-holes in the world we ambled through Old Goa and into the hills to the Kali Adventure Camp where we booked in, two people to a cabin, before being taken to a big river and introduced to white-water rafting.
'Don't take cameras, everything gets wet,' warned the instructor. Garbed in life jacket and helmet we paddled down a few rapids then against the flow. That's when the dinghy stood on its beam-end and threw me out and I plummeted down the Kali River rapids and was pulled back into the raft in calmer waters to much hilarity from the rest of the crew. I dripped ashore, worried that I might be mistaken for an untouchable and set alight.
Karnataka epitomises rural India and is much the same as it has been for eons. Most of the people work in the fields and our arrival caused quite a stir, especially with the beaming children who rush up, arms outstretched, shouting with delight. Whole families worked at clearing ditches ready for the coming monsoon and we passed women washing clothes in the many rivers. It was noticeable that everyone everywhere wore clean clothes.
Leaving at 7am the next day, we rode through a forest onto the Deccan Plain and a dramatic change of landscape. We chugged along over dreadful roads adorned with nasty road-width speed bumps before and after every village, past squashed dogs, and road signs demanding that we 'STOP AND PROCEED'.
We crossed the flat landscape, acclimatising ourselves to the Indian style of riding where MIGHT IS RIGHT is the only rule. First in the pecking order are the buses, usually peopled up to the gunnels. These stop unofficially for nobody. Lorries in their thousands come next, usually brightly painted with: 'IT'S OK TO SOUND HORN' across the rear-end. Truck drivers are the James Bonds of India and are licensed to kill. They seldom indicate and seem oblivious to any other vehicle probably due to the driver being asleep. The country would grind to a halt without them. Cars come next, then the ubiquitous tuk-tucks, three-wheeled 2-stroke taxis which carry anything from a family of five to a three-piece suite. They can spin around on a sixpence and most seem to be driven by 12-year-olds but that may just be me getting old. Motorbikes come just before cyclists in the pecking order and both take their life in their hands. As for pedestrians...
Roundabouts are always chaotic. You just push through where you can around the odd pig, sheep, or dangerous teeth-baring monkey. Errant young goats have to be watched carefully as you negotiate the unavoidable spine-jarring potholes while around the next corner a cow is likely to be having a siesta or willy-nillying in search of discarded banana skins which they relish. It's policy to always pass behind these animals because none use reverse gear. The cart pulling buffaloes that plod ponderously straight ahead are also to be avoided. The King of the Road of course is the sacred Brahman beast. This nuisance forms its own roundabout with its mates and will not respond to any stimulus, be it booting, thousand-decibel air-horns, air-raid sirens or the detonation of a tactical nuclear weapon. All you can do is ride around the haughty arrogant animal uttering profanities. Sacred? Don't make me laugh. If I had my way they would be turned into beefsteak and fed to the hungry. (Ed: You have ben reported to BAG, The Bovine Action Group).
Untouched since the Moguls sacked it in the early 16th century, Hampi is one of India's most impressive archeological sites and it took seven hours to cover the 155 miles to get there. This ruined city is now populated mainly by monkeys who inhabit the fascinating temples and natural wonders set in a river valley. It's a magnet for spiritual oddballs as well as tourists, a fascinating place if looking at ruins is your bag, and a great place for the camera. A corpulent Indian with a name longer than a school register showed us around. I tried coconut 'milk' and was not impressed. Incidentally we had to sit on the floor shoe-less and cross-legged for our meal here. Some of us panted up 560 steps in the heat to a little temple occupied by monkeys where, apparently it was de rigeur to climb onto the massive boulders and watch the sun go down.
Another early start the next day to Belur. Ten hours in the saddle riding through mainly agricultural land and a slow climb into the scenic hills approaching Chikmagalur, one of India's main coffee growing areas where one of the Yorkshire lads fell off and broke his collarbone. He got Hospital treatment, a leather sling and two x-rays to take home, all for a fiver. He could have continued the holiday by taxi under his insurance but he bravely rode as a one-handed pillion for the rest of the trip. I fell off once when I tried to change gear with the footbrake and often could be heard swearing at the false neutrals or the and 'wrong' gears. The Bullet has a 'neutral finder' which is as much use as a handbrake on a canoe.
There's no end of weird sights. One day I saw two men on a 200cc bike zipping past carrying a goat using one hand each, and to see dad, mother and two kids puttering about on a little step-through was quite common. I saw a man with 'MY DAD'S AN ATM' on his T-shirt? I sent a postcard home, wetting the three glue-less stamps and hoping for the best, it arrived minus two of the stamps.
The next day was a 290 mile ride across verdant plains past rice paddies and palm plantations to Mysore, stopping for a rest midway were I distributed pencils and notebooks to a gaggle of wide-eyed children who suddenly appeared, beaming and curious. Mysore is famous for its palace, silks and sandalwood carvings and is a bustling modern city and a great place to shop. Here I was served scalding hot tea in a stainless steel handle-less cup. I saw my one and only traffic light here plus a very short bit of smooth motorway.
Sixty miles south of Mysore's bustle we entered the state of Tamil Nadu and the 18 acre wildlife sanctuary of Jungle Hut Nature Resort at the foot of the Nilgiri Hills in one of the most beautiful places in India. Forested with teak and sandalwood, here live leopard, tiger, wild boar and many species of deer. I saw huge gaudy butterflies and iridescent birds but no mosquitos. We passed an elephant with her baby and stayed at a comfortable lodge with good meals and a swimming pool with sheep roaming loose under beautiful blue Jacaranda trees. At night we sat round a huge camp-fire under 1000 watt stars, beer in hand watching the Kiwis and their girlfriends play a dice game, the object of which was to get extremely sozzled on Indian gin and then pass out. As an exciting activity it's on a par with licking a plug socket.
The next day we visited 'Ooty' (Ootacamund), the former hot-season retreat for the British Raj's Madras administration. To get there necessitated negotiating 36 hairpins climbing to 7500ft. Some rode their bikes up but most of us went by Jeep. Ooty is a great place to shop for tea and peppercorns, cardamom, tribal jewellry and gorgeous shawls and egg-less biscuits. Around Ooty are the classier type of restaurants and tea plantations and fantastic views. I felt decidedly ill by the time we returned because the Jeep's exhaust was vertical and vented noxious diesel fumes through the rolled-up canvas sides.
The next day we left the wildlife sanctuaries and rode up into the heart of the Coorg, a mountainous area, the most biologically diverse in India and perhaps the most tranquil ride of the trip. We meandered along wooded winding roads and spent the night in a simple shared dormitory on a remote coffee plantation set deep in the forest. A perfect place to sip a few beers and watch the flashing fireflies after sundown.
After an early breakfast we rode along surprisingly good roads, looping down through the Coorg Hills until we reached the sea at Mangalore from where it was a short ride along the coast to the pretty beach resort of Turtle Bay. A good dinner a few beers then to bed. A relaxed morning on the beach before a gentle ride up the coastal road to Gokana were we left the bikes and main luggage in a lock-up and boated to a beautiful sandy cove called Paradise Bay, a place with no telephone, electricity or roads. We shipped in a couple of ice chests of bottled beer to a bamboo and palm frond 'kitchen' which provided the ubiquitous breakfast omelette.
Dolphins swim close to the shore which shelves dramatically. Unfortunately, this lovely place seems occupied by mindless weed-smoking hippies lazing about in hammocks and a wild-eyed hairy holy man clutching a seaweed-strewn trident and chanting to himself.
We slept on the beach on mats and blankets. I was awoken in the night by someone's urgent prodding and the sea lapping at my feet. Awoken well before 6am by the seemingly oblivious noisy Yorkshiremen in our party, then into the boat and back to our bikes and luggage. An easy 120 mile ride back to Goa had us saying goodbye to our faithful Enfields which, though rattling like skeletons in a royal cupboard, had served us well.
We stayed in Goa for a couple of days to wind down and wander the streets, eyeing the westernised pleasures of beaches, restaurants and shops. I took a tuk-tuk to a restaurant where I ate something called chicken strogonov. It was so good I did it again the second night. Everybody donated 1000 rupees (£8.50) to share out between the Kiwi guides, Jeep-driver and the mechanic, who could fix any bike without recourse to a big hammer or prayer-wheel.
We were picked up early the next day and taken to the airport for the flight home. Again a weary flight made worse by screaming kids with uncaring parents who knew nothing of discipline. But would I do it all again? Oh yes!
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