Goodbye India

Posted on April 14, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 3 Comments

With less than a week left on my India visa, I was going to wrap up my visit in this country with a couple of stops in the famous architectural towns Chindagraph and Amritsar. With these thoughts in my mind, I left Jaipur relaxed and really looking forward to a change in country that will be coming up shortly.

I had already past a group of these gypsy’s but I was not able to pull over to take photos.
So when I saw a second group i had to stop. But they got angry at me because I was making their donkeys walk all over the road.

Then this man stopped and had a good look at me!

On the way to Chindagraph I stopped for petrol around lunchtime. I pushed my bike into the shade of a bill board and stood checking my bike as I was not really good a forcing breaks for myself when I have nothing to do. As I was inspecting a small oil leak that had sprouted since being in India, I was approached by a man completely dressed in a white shirt and sarong, folded around him in a working style. He didn’t speak English, so after being in India for a while, I presume he was asking my country and said ‘New Zealand’, but he shook his head and eventually worked out the English word for chai (Tea). I accepted and joined the other older man sitting on dirty white plastic chairs in the shade of the small concrete office.

After the usual questions about me and the world cricket match, I was able to find out his story. He owned this petrol station and two on the main state highway between Jaipur and Delhi that his two younger sons run. His elder son worked in a government department in Delhi.

When I had finally finished my chai, I stood to shake their hands, he refused my hand and touched my head and shoulders. ‘We treat you like our daughter and do not shake hands with you. Best of luck for you journey and I hope you will be safe’. I felt so touched my their actions and blessing, Once again, I was reminded why I like travelling.

Arriving into the western designed city of Chindagraph was amazing. For the first time in India I saw street signs, signs showing the city layout and even directions to the different sectors within. I quickly found a hotel and set about organising the required paper work to see the Le Corbusier designed buildings.

Once I received my three forms, I headed for the ‘Court House’. I parked my motorcycle next to a man sitting on the ground cleaning and polishing shoes. He acted so grateful and honoured to have me park my motorcycle there, I guess it caused quite a stir and people coming to see it. I figured I left it in good hands.

I found an entry into the building, watching the locals hurriedly walk in and out the well guarded doors. When I walked up to them, I was stopped and asked for my paper work. Handing him my three sheets of paper, he looks at them and tells me I need a photocopy of something from gate 1. At this point after a morning of hunting down the office and then filling out the paperwork, I was a bit over it.

A judge stopped and asked the guard what the problem was.Many Hindu words were passed between them before I was told not to take any photos inside the building. I entered the building, and was largely disappointed with the barren corridors and the stained with red pann spit sprayed on the concrete floors. Giving up on the inside, I walked around to the Le Corbusier hand statue. At least from here you get a great vantage point to see the main face of the Court House.

After I picked my bike up from the shoe man, I followed the traffic out onto the main road, but found myself in the rock garden car park. What luck! Everyone walked as directed bya huge sign towards the entrance, only to be turned down and told to walk back towards a very small hole in the wall ticket booth. Another Indian idiocracy! I followed the concrete path down the narrow path, which opened out to the following views.

This is the tiny ticket booth!

This is the tiny exit!

While I was here, I was waiting on my new passport to arrive and a second visa debit card, so hopefully I wont have any more issues like I did in Indonesia. As soon as that arrived, I packed my bags and headed for Amritsar.

On my way, I passed over bridges with amazing icy blue colours, the temperature dropped and then I could see mountains emerging in the haze a head of me. This can’t be right. I stopped in front of a sign and for the first time, I realised I was heading in the completely wrong direction for the last 40 kilometres and there were no roads heading that way except the one that I had missed.

Turning around, I travelled the 40 kilometres to the confusing road work construction and asked for the town of Amritsar, When they didn’t understand me I asked for Pakistan! Eventually someone worked out what I was trying to ask them and pointed me in a direction, only to discover I was now heading back to Chindagraph. Pulling over I tried again. I know I am saying it right. I found people are trying too hard with what I am saying.They think it must be so complicated hence why they give up or point me in the wrong direction. Eventually, after several miss-directions, I make it to Amritsar.

Sliding my shoes riddled with holes across the well polished wooden bench to a man with an orange turban wrapped around his head. In the few minutes I had to wait for my number, I choked in the strong stench of rotten shoes. As soon as I had received the metal tag, I ran up the steps into the bright sunlight. Breathing easier in the cleaner air, I pulled out my scarf and carefully wrapped my head.

Upon entering the Golden Temple, you are forced to share all foot diseases by stepping into a common foot bath, visited by thousands every day. As I stepped out, I nearly pushed over a man who suddenly bent down in front of me to touch the first step into the palace area. Side stepping around him, I passed through the white marble arch and there stood the Golden Temple, in the middle of a large body of water, with only one covered gang way leading to its front doors. Walking around the outer marble colonnade, I watch the locals practice their religious beliefs.

Some sat in the shade of the colonnade with a string of beads in their hands, deep in thought, some collected water in clear plastic containers to take home to use at a later date, others paid their respects to shrines placed around the site and a few removed all their clothing bar their underwear and gingerly stepped down the slippery marble steps into the water to bath themselves in the holly water amongst the large fish. The women bathed in one of three concrete shelters hidden away from the devious prying eyes.

I finally made my way completely around the whole tank to the gang way leading to the Golden Temple. I stared down the long hot squishy queue to it and decided it was not worth the agonising wait. I walked back out through the main doors back into the dirty chaos of the streets that surround the quiet peaceful temple.

A few hours before dusk, I talked a British girl from the guest house to come with me to see the Wahga border closing ceremony. On the way out there we realised we were in theslowest three wheeler imaginable as we were being over taken by slightly larger three wheelers. It took over an hour to travel the 30 kilometres to the border, thinking we were extremely late we rushed and deposited our bags and were quickly ushered into the VIP area, which literally meant you got to sit squashed up on the hard concrete kerb with a front row view of the action.

We waited for ages, watching children and women run up and down the street holding the Indian flag proudly in their hands. Everyone rushed into the street and started dancing when they heard the ‘Slum Dog Millionaire’ sound track been blasted across the speakers.

By the time the actual ceremony started my bottom was completely numb and all I wanted to do was leave. Watching the 6 foot tall guards strut their stuff, in these amazing costumes,was incredibly funny but at the same time interesting. They opened the gate and shook hands, then slammed the gates shut and continued to stomp around with large and high steps. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the flags came down and we found ourselves back in our slow three wheeler heading back into town.

Today is the day I leave India, for the first time I wasn’t worried or nervous about crossing into another country, I actually felt excited. I woke, but I didn’t have to rush as the banks and borderdo not open until 10 am. I managed to pay my bill at the hostel and pack my bags before heading to the nearest bank with foreign exchange. When I arrived they told me, even though we have a sign out the front saying foreign exchange we do not do it. Walk up to the corner and there is another bank that does it. This is typical India. I walk up to that bank and was ushered to a teller, but she told me that they couldn’t do it because they only exchange US dollars into Indian rupees. She told me to talk to the guard.

I was then ushered to a man who spoke perfect English. I sat down at his desk, was offered a Chai and he arranged for me to get my Indian rupees exchanged into Pakistan rupees. He was my miracle worker. As I waited we talked about every thing from marriage cost to the difference in our two cultures. This was the first time I had met a person who had been living in England and had returned to India to help support his family. I left that bank really happy to have meet someone where I could have a normal conversation beyond the normal two questions – what is my ‘good’ country? and what is my ‘good’ name.

Later that morning, I arrived at the border faster than the three wheeler had taken the night before. After filling out the usual departure card, I hand that and my passport across to the customs officer. I stand there and start to get nervous as he stares at my entrance stamp for a long time. ‘When did you arrive?’ he asks ’13^th of January, this year’ I reply ‘which city?’ ‘Chennai’ knowing that, that part of the entrance stamp is smudged from the Chennai customs officers. He stands up and walks over to someone with a magnifier machine, while he talks with that man, another man enters the conversation ‘when did you enter India?’ ’13^th of January’ ‘ How long have you stayed in India?’ ‘Three months’ ‘so you came to India on the 13^th of January 2010?’ ‘No, I entered Chennai airport on the 13^th of January 2011 – THIS YEAR, check my Sri Lankan visa’ They then asked me about my motorcycle and my trip. When the first man returned to his seat, obviously finally satisfied, he said ‘Do you like dolls?’ I looked at him, completely confused wondering what sort of question is that? He saw my confusion and ‘the doll on your motorcycle’ ‘ah, my sock monkey, yes, he comes with me where ever I go’ Laughing at the sudden change in heat.

I moved onto the custom’s area, where I had to wait for someone to return from lunch. When he returned they made me fill out a form asking for permission to exit the country with my motorcycle and tore out the middle section of my Carnet de Passage. I was then told to sit down, this will take 30 minutes to check the system. I was given a cup of chai while I waited, because it took a lot longer than they said. Eventually, I was beckoned out to inspect the bike. They then asked what I was carrying in my bags, I was then asked to open my personal gear and show him the contents.

Next my passport had to be checked once again. I sat in the plastic seats waiting for that to be returned to me. Once I had it,I was released and I rode my bike towards the gates to Pakistan.

Hitting Rock Bottom

Posted on April 13, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 4 Comments

If a Psychiatrist examined me right now, he would take one look at me and tell me that I am Bipolar. To be honest, I didn’t see it coming, it snuck up on me and took me by complete surprise. It wasn’t until I saw myself snapping at locals for little annoyances and crying if anyone didn’t understand me or flatly said no. In the few days before arriving into Jaipur, a few things tested me way beyond my already spread thin personal limits, which I think pushed me over the edge to the state I’ve found myself in.

Leaving Bhuj at the crack of dawn, as I had a 400 kilometre ride to Mount Abu in Raijestan. It wasn’t going to be a particular technical day, as there was only one road to take, which happen to be a large state road. At least once a day, I get a car load of people pulling up next to me and matching my speed and within a few minutes they get bored and move on. When a Jeep pulled up next to me, nothing was out of the ordinary, until they slowed right now to make me pass them, then they would speed up to pass me. This game was repeated about five times before the driver slammed on the breaks only much too late and crashed into the back of parked 50 tone truck, which was conveniently sitting in the fast lane of the state highway.

I watched the impact through my mirrors as I rode away. Normally in
New Zealand or Australia, I would have stopped to offer assistance to the victims, but in foreign countries you have no idea how they are going to react or blame, therefore you must just keep on driving despite your feelings. I couldn’t help feeling completely shocked by what just happened all because they were looking at me.

Later that day, I eventually arrived into Mount Abu and found a nice guest house which for once had a great place to hang out and meet other travellers. My plans were to move on the following day, but as soon as I arrived I didn’t budge from the court yard talking to the other fellow tourist. Later that evening, I was asked by a local if I wanted a guide to see sun set point. Frowning, I said no and asked the two Canadians I had befriended what that was all about. They told me, apparently there has been reports of people getting mugged or worse. I couldn’t believe it, it was meant to be a local attraction, and it was unsafe to visit by your self.

The following day, I set out for a walk around the towns other attractions. As I walked down to the lake, I had Indian men asking for my photo. Declining and holding my hand up to my face, I carried on. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t want this, but if you get photographed every day you soon realise that one photo isn’t enough for them. They take one photo with each one of them, until everyone in the group has had their turn. I have also been told that some pictures of ‘white’ women sun bathing on the beach in their bikini’s end up in Indian porn magazines.

I find the narrow over grown steps to ‘Frog Rock’. As its called it’s a rock that looks like a frog jumping into the lake below. I was feeling uneasy, the only thing that kept me for turning around was hearing women’s voices. I past two men sitting on the side of the path drinking cans of beer at 10 in the morning. As soon as I pass, they start calling out to me. I ignore and carry on up the stairs hoping I will catch up with the women’s voices. I pass a family also sitting on the side of the steps in the shade catching their breath. Disappointed I pass them and climb higher. Eventually I arrived at the top and was slightly disappointed at the rock, but I took photos anyway.

Frog Rock

Turning around I start to walk back down the steps. Stopping at a viewing platform, I take a photo of the lake. A young boy of about 15 years old, bounds down the steps after me. He stops next to me and demands my name. ‘Mickey Mouse’ I reply as I didn’t like his mannerism and I walked off down to the next platform. Once again, he runs after me and demands my name. I turn and head further down the steps, when he runs after me. I stop and step aside to let him pass, as I wasn’t going to play this game, but he stops in front of me, demands my name and grabs my left breast.

I found myself staring at him, regaining his footing after I had punched him in the face. He grabbed his jaw and I thought to myself, good, I’m glad it hurts. At the same time I couldn’t believe that was my instant reaction. As he started to walk away, rage took over. I ran after him and while yelling at him I punched him again then proceed to kick him hard where ever I could make contact. I had him squatting on the ground with his palms pressed together in the sorry / thank you position. I then realised what I was doing to this young boy of about 15 years old and felt instantly embarrassed.

Turning to walk off, I had second thoughts and asked for his photo. He stood patiently waiting for my camera to be ready, just as I pressed the button, he realised what I wanted it for and he turned away. I didn’t tell him I captured him, I just yelled ‘I’m taking your picture to the police, never touch a women like that ever again, you bastard!’

Here is the little boy… well the back of him.

Tears of embarrassment and shock streamed down my face. I’ve been grabbed before on previous trips, but this time I wasn’t taking it well. I half ran down the steps, when I reached the two men drinking on the steps, I stopped in front of them and gave them an ear bashing about bantering white tourist, we absolutely hate it, and this is the reason why women hate travelling though India. Gulping down the tears, I walk back into town, knowing full well I need to calm down before I start getting shop owners hassling me to buy their goods.

When I stopped for a pee, I found this staring at my bottom!

By the time I reached Jaipur two days later, I was a mess. It was Sunday and I had arrived in the middle of the day, so I thought I would walk to a famous block printing shop that was close by. On the way, I noticed a man in a yellow shirt walking towards me chatting on the phone. As soon as I passed he turned around and started following me. At first I thought, we must be heading in the same direction, so I crossed the road, he also crossed. I crossed back and so did he. When I turned a corner onto a busy road, I was surprised to find him also turning the corner. It wasn’t until I started approaching traffic police, I saw him turn hisheels and head back the same way we had just come from. I couldn’t believe it, I was now scared to be walking around this city in broad daylight let alone going out for dinner at night. Luckily for me my hotel had a roof top restaurant, which meant I didn’t to go out of the hotel compound at night.

Even after a good night sleep in a beautiful room, I didn’t snap out of the depressing mood I was in. I walked to the ‘Pink City’ where I would see some of Jaipurs major tourist attractions. I was a wreck walking the two kilometres towards the city centre, jumping at every man’s possible touch, getting upset when a scooter cut me off. I saw a young girl walking in front of me, I walked up to her and asked if she was on her way to do some sight seeing, she wasn’t but she was walking in my direction. I was embarrassed as I was a good 10 years older than her and I was acting like a child. However, I relaxed and was able to carry on feeling a bit better.

The painting on my bedroom wall

Later that day, I was approached by a man who started the conversation with ‘Can you please tell me why all tourist hate talking to the locals?’ I wasn’t the right person for them to be asking, plus I smelt a scam or a mugging opportunity. With a quick look around to see who his friends were, I carried on walking while the guy kept in step with me, yelling ‘why are you all like this? If you hate talking to locals, why don’t you just go home… I stopped and losing my temper I said ‘I hate talking to people like you – this isn’t a normal conversation and I do not feel like talking to you’. As I walked off, he yelled at me ‘Go home, just go home then!’ I felt really bad, as he caught me at a bad moment in my trip, but shortly afterwards I was approached by two more men in a similar manor.

The Hawa Maha

These windows were designed to allow the women to watch the daily activities on the street below but not be watched themselves.

The street view of The Hawa Maha

I needed something fun to do and as I am interested in block printing. I booked myself into the block printing course at Anokhi Museum out in Amber. The only problem was the printer had to go home to his village unexpectedly for family reasons, so I was only able to do the block carving section. I arrived and was introduced to my ‘master’. I chose a design and was shown the process from transferring the design on to a pre-painted block of wood to actually carving the block. At the end of the day, I was able to take home a paisley block!

First step was to choose a design

Then to trace it out with soft punch marks to the piece of wood.

To create the circles you use this hand drill which is actually really hard to manage with only two hands!

These are the carving tools made from harden steel formed into different shapes

Its taking form!

Every now and then you check the original piece of paper to make sure you still following the right pattern.

I got to have a go at everything, but im not as fast at my master!

Finally you cut the patten away from the rest of the block.

Then cut the block down to size.

Mine took only one day to complete (with the help from my master!) The one he has in front of him took him 10 days!

I was in Jaipur for at least a week. Four days into my time there I felt the mood lift and I felt like smiling once again. On the sixth day I actually felt completely ready to hit the road. As I walked around town on the last day, I was stopped twice by the ‘why do all tourist act like this?’ guys. The first one I recognised, having been yelled at by him previously on my first day, but he didn’t remember me. I calmly talked to him, still uncertain if this was some sort of scam, but today I had patience. I managed to get away from the grumpy man only to be stopped by an older guy dressed in a suit asking the same question. I stopped and told him the truth, what had happened to me during my two and a half months stay in India, hence why sometimes I don’t want to talk to every Indian I see on the streets. He actually looked shocked and quickly apologised then asked me out for chai. I still couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling so I declined a hundred times before just walking off as he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The following day, I rode out of Jaipur with a huge smile on my face, ready to tackle anything once again.

Amber Fort

Crafty Gujarat

Posted on April 6, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 1 Comment

The guide book was correct, Bhuj was definately the wild west of Gujarat, however, my map was completely wrong. I ended up passing a village I was hoping to stop at and possibly do a home stay with a family of block printers. Instead I arrived into the township of Bhuj and couldn’t find the recommended guest house, as it was well hidden down several narrow alley ways. That afternoon I thought I should go and see the town museum, but didn’t after walking around the whole complex and back to the main entrance as I couldn’t find the second entrance my map showed. I couldn’t believe how wrong my map was.

On my way to Bhuj I got to stop and see more salt farms.

Should I take a tuk tuk or a camel?

This is another one of those moments where the parents ask me to take a photo of their kid.

My attempts for finding stuff today went from bad to worse, I jumped on my bike to look for a small craft village less than 8 kilometres from the township. 15 kilometres later, I turned around ask someone, they pointed in the direction I came from, but I was past it, I just couldn’t be bothered any more.

I was amazed at the completely different vibe I got from Bhuj. Everyone is so friendly, I didn’t feel threatened at all. I couldn’t help wondering if it was because Gujarat is an alcohol free state, or because a lot of the people here are Muslim. What ever the reason, I actually walked back to my hotel late and felt completely safe.

Rising early, I left for the white desert which is 90 kilometres north of from Bhuj. Along the way, I spotted a dried up lake to stop and take photos of myself and the bike. I had to call it quits after a while, as trucks and cars were stopping on the side of the road to watch me.

I was stopped further up the road by the police asking me to obtain my permit to travel to the Pakistan boarder. While I was in the tiny mud hut, I met an Indian doctor and his family who were also on their way out to the White Desert. As a lot of Indians are, they are really cautious people and he asked me to come with him and his family, as he thought I would get lost. Declining several times, with a thousand different reasons he eventually gave up and let me go.

I got almost there before I came to a ‘T’ intersection without a sign posts to tell me where I was meant to go. Luckily I had just past two Indian men that had strong Pakistan facial features, one dressed in a long purple shirt and pants, the other in a matching yellow one. Surprised to discover I was a woman, they pointed me in the right direction.

Riding out into the middle of nowhere, I came across a small masonry hut with two border guards patrolling the no man’s land between India and Pakistan. I was asked to stop my bike, dismount and hand over my permission. I then had to sign a ledger, with all my details. It was kind a like a signing a note to say I promise I will come back into India! I asked if I could take a photo, but they sadly said no ‘this is a border post!’

Following the dried up muddy tracks, I found myself wishing it had just rained to have some fun on the dirt. Eventually the brown turned to white as I hit the salt. Riding out past the cars heading into the middle of the vast salt flats, I felt the bike drop into a slushy part, so giving it a bit of gas I worked my way out of it, slightly frightened in case I found myself in a deeper salty puddle.

On my way back into Bhuj, I thought I would stop at some of the craft villages that I had passed this morning to get out here. Each village had its own ‘main craft trade’ to support its community. Not only was I looking forward to seeing all the local embroidery and mirror work (embroidered mirrors into objects like clothing, bags, blankets etc), but I had also heard the mud houses were amazing to visit.

I stopping in my first village, I was a bit disappointed in not been able to find anyone! The place was deserted or they were sick of tourist peeking into their lives. My next town on my list was Hodka, but I couldn’t find the place!! Most of the signs here are in the squiggle Hindi that I really cannot understand at all.

Riding back into the small cross roads called Bhirendara, I stopped for a cold drink and a packet of chips – my first food of the day (its well past 1 pm by now). I left too early for breakfast and there was nothing to eat out in the white desert!

I headed to the next town on my list, Khavda, again it was known for mud houses and mirror work. I stopped in the one shop, the only one that was open. While I was enjoying myself looking at the work especially the copper bells, I could see a small crowd around my bike. Walking outside, everyone let me into the middle of the group.

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One man asked me a thousands questions about New Zealand, Australia, and my trip. One questions he asked me was, what type of meat do you eat in New Zealand? I replied as you do, you know, cows!’ He looked down at me and said, ‘We do not eat cows here in India, they are sacred.’ I felt so bad, that I had completely screwed up! As I departed He said everyone has come to see the tiny woman on the massive motorcycle, which was pretty funny, but they were all loving it.

I moved on again, and stopped at another town – this was finally what I was expecting. Traditional mud houses with decorative mud detailing.

When I entered the house, I was welcomed by a beautiful older lady dressed in traditional Kutch mirror embroidery. She has this open home with her family, where they all sell their hand made stuff ranging from her great-grandmother to her grand daughters work. It was all amazing, they offered me chai (Tea) and I sat down on the floor and filtered through the amazing work.

Once I had spent all my money, I loaded my bike and took off. I was broke but I wanted to stop at one more place to see if it was worth coming back the following day with money.

I drove into a dusty town that reminded me of a typical Mongolian township. Driving around desperately trying to find the place. Just as I was about to give up, I found it. Tired, worn out with the lack of food and water – I also realised I was extremely sun burnt!

As I walked in and everyone turned to staring at me, I asked if there were stuff to see here, that when finally someone spoke up, ‘there is, but first it chai time, so come and sit with us’ Sitting down, chatted with a few of them I meet one Australian guy volunteering for the NGO. Afterwards, he showed me the museum where they had collected thousands of pieces of work from all around the district. They had completely categorised them, hoping that local people will use them to inspire themselves when creating a more modern piece.

He then showed me the work room, where everyone was busy working on the sewing machines. One woman was from Pakistan and joked she wanted to come with me and go back home! I laughed and told her to jump on and hold on tight! Everyone laughed. Then he showed me the show room – it was amazing, I found so many pieces I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The lady in front is the one from Pakistan who wants to come with me.

The show room.

The mud work details, all done with your hands.

That night, I went next door to the Thali restaurant. The nice owner fronting the Thali shop wanders over to me and asks me about my motorcycle, and my trip. We get talking after I have eaten a whole days worth of food in one sitting. Ok, so now I’m feeling pretty sick, and dieing to lie down, but I quickly work out he isn’t just the owner for the restaurant but for the hotel I am staying in. Him and his wife are getting a house built at the moment, and he showed me the various designs that they had to choose from. I eventually managed to leave and head up to my room to rest my pot belly.

This is the one the first steps to block printing. The piece of fabric goes through about 10 – 14 steps depending on colour and design.

They lie them out in the sun to dry before processing them again.

This is the back yard of the block printers house. They do everything in this yard, from printing to dying.

This is where they heat up the natural dyes.

The have laid out all the fabrics ready for cutting

When I started travelling, I wasn’t sure how I was going to make a connection with the local women, knowing that in many countries they are not generally seen around the streets, let alone able or allowed to talk to a foreigner. Visiting small craft communities gives me a great opportunity to bridge the gap between the women and the women at home. It also gives me a great reason to get myself into the family’s houses and work environment to see how the women actually live their lives.

A good friend of mine, Louise and I have decided to work together, where I find and buy fair trade products from all the amazing places I visit. After sending them back to Australia, Louise will upload them to a online shop we are currently building. I will give more details as they emerge.

Lets Celebrate Holi!

Posted on April 5, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 2 Comments

I went into a famous fabric shop, which was full of women buying!

Leaving my hotel as ‘google maps’ told me to, I found myself in the heart of the slums of Vardara. Turning around, I tried to back track back towards the bus station near my hotel. I was completely lost, I was forced to stop and ask two police men, who quickly pointed me in the right direction. Once I was back to pretty much where I started from, I shoved google map directions out of my mind and headed north on the major road.

Within 50 kilometres north of the city, I came across a sign that fitted perfectly with the direction I wanted to go in. This allowed me to cut off a largely populated city I was hoping to avoid. In actual fact, it was the same town, ‘google maps’ had originally wanted me to go through.

Travelling further into the country side I found myself getting aroused by the amazing scenery laid out in front of me. I was passing camels pulling wooden carts down the main road, with their drivers dressed in white cotton pants and shirt with a waist coat and a huge red turban carefully wrapped on their heads. Colourful motorcycle tuk tuks, overflowing with people, drove between villages stepping in for what local buses should be doing.

I had just spent two long days riding up from Goa on the main highway, covering over 700 kilometres. I found myself almost falling asleep with the boredom of the lack of scenery and culture. As I hit Mumbai, the heat mixing in with the chaos of the intense traffic, I felt as if I was at work for a change and not following my own dream. Then finding myself in the state of Gujarat, where they are proud to display their culture and craft, it soon didn’t feel like a chore.

Stopping at a road side cafe, I topped my water up and grab a cold sugary drink to energised myself. Skulking away from the sun, I stood in the shade. Still dripping in sweat, I watched the locals stop to stare at my motorcycle. It wasn’t long before I was approached by a man who spoke good English and wanted to know all about my motorcycle and I. It was the first time that a local asked me if I was sponsored!

Turning off the main road, I head towards Dhrangadhra. I rode through a tiny village which I got completely lost in. Having found myself in the middle of the village, I had to push through the jambed packed streets, bristling with people, bicycles, tuk tuks, scooters, cars and then me. Following my nose, I turned down a street and eventually found myself back on the right path.

I arrived at Dhrangadhra and pulled over at what I thought was a good landmark, outside Indian Oil petrol station on a round-a-bout. I call Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha, a famous photographer and conservationist for the preserving of the ‘Little Rann’ especially the ‘Wild Asses’. He also runs the town guest house and safari out into the salt plains of Little Rann Sanctuary.

Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha told me to just to ask people and they will direct me to the house. Pulling outside a small shop I call out to the owner. He tells me to turn down an alley way. I follow and stop to ask again, they tell me to turn left again. At the corner I was stopped by a man on a scooter, He explained to me he was theson of Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha and the guest house was the one with his mother standing outside it. Finally!! I was just too tired for this game.

I pulled up outside the house and she beckons me to push my bike inside, then tells me to sit down. A ‘chai’ was placed before me, and then a plate of chapatis, an Alu (Potato) dish and rice. It was perfect timing as I was starving. Afterwards, I was shown to my room. I could finally get out of my hot sweaty motorcycle gear.

My room was upstairs from the family home, it was a worn blue washed concrete building. I had a simple toilet and bathroom at one end. Peeling of my damp clothes and changed into my off road gear, I grabbed my camera and took off for a walk. Walking down the quiet streets, I turned several corners to find myself watching women washing their clothes in the streets.

Taking photos of buildings, small details – feeling people watching me, I slowly turned around. I could see the colourful woman peering around the corner. Quietly talking about me and my camera. I showed my biggest smile and they returned it and said hello.

After turning a few corners I was once again surrounded by women, asking me to take photographs of them. When I tired from taking everyone’s photo I moved onwards to the next group of people.

Eventually I made my way out to the main shopping road, finding everyone extremely friendly and welcoming. All quietly watching me and whispering about me. I got the idea that not many tourist stop in town and actually visit the township. Making my way back to the guest house, I had to lie down, trying to find refuge from the heat.

Later that night, two Australians and one Irish man arrived. The two Australians had just come back from the Little Rann and was able to tell us all about their trip, which helped us to form a plan of attack for the next day.

Rising early, we leapt into the rusty, worn Jeep with MrDevjibhai Dhamecha at the wheel. We drove deep into the ‘Little Rann’. Our first stop, was the end process, where the salt is collected at one of the depot. Walking down the railway tracks, I could walk around the piles of salt. We walk back to meet Mr Devjibhai Dhamechaonce again at the local chai shop, where all the men gather for breaks and to watch the cricket. When we left they all made a hand symbol of riding a motorcycle and went brim brim. Laughing, I waved goodbye and Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha explained to me that he had told them about me. This happened through out the day – I could hear him telling everyone we stopped to talk to and even on the phone!

We moved further into the desert, driving over deeply cracked earth, some sprinkled with salt. The temperature rose as the mirages thickened on the horizon. We stopped at a man dressed in black dress shoes, rolled up tight brown pants, a white shirt and a waist coat. He was working pushing the salt around once a day to ensure that a crust doesn’t form and to help create nice round balls of salt. He silently walked in a steady pattern around the pond, standing in ankle deep water ruining his beautiful shoes. I read an article where it was stated, when they cremate a salt panworker only the soles of his feet remain as they have spent many years absorbing salt.

‘Wild Asses’ appeared from the scrubby bushes to come and relax in the desert. Now I’m not talking about naked run away blondes, I am talking about an animal that looks like a horse cross with a donkey. But in actual fact, it is just a horse with a sandy coat and has an erect dark mane, that continues in to a dark brown strip running the length of his spine to its tail.

Moving across the barren dried up lake we stopped at large fields of flat salt lakes, where people had gathered up the dried salt into long straight piles. Then they came along afterwards, scooping them up and dumping them into large piles at the end of each line.

Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha then drove us over to show us where the workers live in a make shift camp. The main family area was a canvas tent. There were two other houses, made of straw. I guess there were three different families living here, each with their own cooking facilities. Everyone wanted a photo of themselves and each of them were extremely excited to see themselves on the tiny 2 inch screen. One took a photo of me using my camera.

We then headed back to the main camp on the edge of the Little Kann for lunch. We got shown to our traditional kooba’s (huts). I was completely excited, as this was going to be my home for the night, listening to nothing but wind, completely away from the chaos of Indian villages.

After a peaceful night in the desert, we arrived back into town the following morning, right in the middle of Holi celebrations. I couldn’t help it but grab my camera and joining in on the fun. Even though I didn’t have any pigment to plaster anyone with, I was soon the target for many children with hand primed and ready for smearing colour on my face.

Piles of Paper Work

Posted on March 30, 2011 by Motomonkey in India No Comments

My Pakistan visa was on the forefront of my mind. I had earlier established that I was not able to apply in India as I had originally planned when leaving Australia. The Pakistan embassy in New Delhi has since ceased issuing visa’s to foreigners. Even if I had obtained the visa in Australia before I left, it would have longed expired before I even made it to the border!

I came up with an elaborate scheme with help from my friend Melanie. In theory, I should be able to send my passport back to her in Australia. Once she receives it, she can add the required bank cheque and then forward it on to the embassy in Canberra. But even this scheme has its flaws, as I was told by a passing tourist that in India, it was against the law to send a passport out of the country unaccompanied. After a quick call to the courier company, established that this was indeed correct and I will need a letter from New Zealand Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade, stating I was allowed to do so. Just another hoop to jump through.

I could have stayed in Hampi for another week at least, but I had to get on to this task before I ran out of time. Grudgingly leaving Hampi behind I rode towards Goa. It was going to be a long dusty ride, but I made sure I left earlier enough to make it one day.

Colva beach wasn’t going to be interesting, It was just another resort village full of package tourist mainly from Russia. Less than 6 kilometres away was a small township of Margo, which had everything I needed, from a great market to a courier company.

My guest house owners made me fish curry and rice, because they thought I wasn’t eating enough.

It was so tasty I had to take a photo!

I had two frogs in my room when I moved in, this little fulla (which disappeared shortly after I got rid of the other one..) and one who lived in the toilet. I ‘accidentally’ flushed him after he jumped onto my bottom!

I found a nice little mud cottage, at the rear of a family house. It was simple, but it was quiet and it had a desk with a chair. I was going to be stuck here until my passport returned, so I had to make sure I was happy. In India, most guest houses require you to fill out a tourist form and have to view and photocopy the passport. Even though I had many copies, it was too risky to change guest houses.

I spent the weekend filling out forms, photocopying my passport and printing out the required government letters and letters of introductions from Australian Geographic and myself. I had decided not only to apply for a Pakistan visa, but a second New Zealand passport. The problem with this is that I needed someone appropriate to witness me signing the statuary declaration.

I thought the easiest method would be going to the police station. Each time I told my request, I was passed on to the next officer up, until I finally reached the superintendent.

I was asked into a massive room on the top floor of the police station. The room was sparsely furnished and He sat behind the typically large wooden desk. As I walked closer to him, he abruptly asked for my name, country and what I wanted. After I told him the issue, he then shock his head and said he couldn’t help me as I didn’t know him, I didn’t grown up in this area, therefore he could not sign such a piece of paper. Maybe I could try a lawyer.

A lawyer! I thought, not only is this going to be really expensive but its going to take a long time. I thanked the superintendent and he offered his services any time I need it – This is one of those times buddy, but you still cannot help me!

I found a lawyer’s office, but the man hadn’t turned up for the day. I sat quietly on the hard wooden bench for an hour, when the man walked in and I was finally asked for the document. Two young office girls licked and stuck four massive postal stamps on to the document, almost covering up a fourth of the page. They then pulled out a metal stamp with long wooden handle and with a bang they had placed a round blue ink stamp over the top of them. Walking through the two wooden wild west swing doors to the actual office of the lawyer, they asked him to sign it. Since I was sending my passport off, I thought I better get an official copy of it too.

Verified copy of passport and visa

As I walked out of the office I felt proud of myself. I had managed to complete a task in under three hours and I still had time before the shops shut for their long lunch break. To be honest, I was concerned, wondering if the New Zealand passport office will accept my statuary declaration, with all the Indian official stamps on it!

Putting everything into a courier bag with two sets of instructions, one for each application. I sent it off to Australia.

For the next few weeks, it was the only thing on my mind – where was my passport? Is it safe? Am I stuck here in India? Besides freaking out, I actually had a whole A4 piece of paper scribbled full of things to do, from blog writing, cartoon drawing, clothes mending to motorcycle maintenance.

After two weeks being cooped up like a chicken in my room, I walked into my favourite local restaurant for a Masala Dosa dinner, when I heard my name being called. Turning to where the sound came from, I was stunned to discover I was looking at Jan and Pat, a Dutch couple, riding a Royal Enfield, who I met through Daphne and Colin weeks ago!

To have two familiar faces suddenly pop up out of the blue, is just amazing. I just couldn’t believe my eyes – neither could they! When you are travelling alone, you really appreciate the people who you meet time and time again and enjoy their company.

The following day, I hear a knock at my door. Turning in my plastic chair, I find Daphne and Colin peering in! Another amazing surprise! I was completely blown away as I had truly thought I wouldn’t ever see them again.

During my third week in Goa, I had completely forgotten my ‘to do list’, as I spent most of my time doing day trips out of Colva and having amazing dinner / breakfast parties.

The Motomonkey Bike is squeeze into a spot on the small ferry

Riding off the ferry Pat tried to get a photo of me, but this is typical India, there is always some one in the way!

Colin and Daphne at the beach! -Photo thanks to Pat

I became support crew and filmed the two ‘Collywood Stars’ Colin and Daphne while they rode their bike.

I just realised how bad this must look leaving from a bar!

Im positive they are talking about Enfields!

This particular ferry had more breathing room!

Jan and I were completely suck in the middle of it!

The two lovely Enfeild ladies, Dahpne and Pat

At the end of the third week, I finally received my passport and was able to leave. The problem was, I hadn’t finished crossing everything off my list! I still had to do a service on my bike!

This visa looks boring! I want a prettier one – I think this is the plainest
looking visa I have in my passport.

The day before I wanted to leave, I stripped my bike down, letting the oil drip out in to a cut off five litre water bottle. I washed my air filter and oil filter. While they were drying, I decided to do a check on everything else. My fort boots, had completely disintegrated, I am now left with plastic rings! I could wrap electrical tape around each plastic ring, but there would be more tape than anything else – I am going to have to design another method of keeping the dust out of the seals.

Front Fork Boots

In Indonesia I had realised something wasn’t quiet right with my front sprocket. As It would move from side to side on the spline, causing unusual wear on the guard and the chain. Removing the front sprocket cover to inspect it, I wasn’t ready for the surprise I found.

Front sprocket after I took the guard off.

You can see that some of the teeth have snapped off!

Over half of each tooth on the sprocket had been snapped off, only three out of the 14 were still standing. There was no way, I could drive anywhere like this, I had to change my sprocket. Before I could set to work removing the sprocket, I realised that the bike has a old fashion way to hold the sprocket on the shaft using circlip pliers. This is something I don’t carry with me, but something I can either find at a bike shop or just buy. This meant I had to take a trip into town to sort it out.

After the air filter had dried, I re-greased the air filter and re-installed it. Then the oil filter. Once the bike was together again, I went to fetch the oil – as I broke the plastic seal, I realised that I had brought normal 10w-50 a light truck oil. I was so excited to finally find 10w-50 I forgot to check if it was for a four stroke engine or not. It wasn’t. Now I had a bike with a broken sprocket I couldn’t fix and no oil in it. On top of all that, I had to ride it into town to sort it all out to still be able to leave tomorrow!

I fought a small internal battle about whether it would make a difference to use the light truck oil or not. I actually nearly put it in, but then I remembered on my last trip when I was in Russia, all I could find was oil for trucks or cars. This wasn’t a problem until two months later I had to replace my rockers and cam lobes. This might not have been the cause of damage, but I didn’t want that to happen again, all because I was too lazy to take a six kilometres bus ride back to the bike shop. So I forced myself to walk out to the local bus stop.

When it finally arrive, I was push onto the already packed bus. I was standing in the aisle next to men with shot guns between their legs, a lady who kept on pushing her small child in front of me, then decided that she wanted to stand at the back and pushed everyone onto the seats as she squeezed her large bottom down the narrow aisle. Scowling at her, I tried to hold on tight as the bus driver sped around corners, slammed on the breaks, sped up with his foot flat on the gas until once again he would slam on the breaks. I was tossed around like a plastic bag stuck in the wind on a busy highway. It made me appreciate riding my motorcycle which was stuck at my guest house!

Thirty minutes later, I arrived into Margo, when I got a call from Jan. ‘I’ll come and get you and drive you around town.’ My saviour, it was hot and I had no idea where I was going to find circlip pliers AND I get a ride on the back of an Enfield!

I swapped the oil over to proper four stroke oil 20w-50 4T without any problems. Then we went on a mission to find a tool shop that sold circlip pliers. After been sent to a few different shops, eventually we found it and I brought a pair for 100 IRP ($2 AUS). It’s a pity I forgot about this small detail before I left Australia as I am sure I could have adapted one of my existing tools to do the same thing. This is going to be something for me to develop in the future, so I don’t have to continue carrying a single use tool. Jan dropped me off at my guest house and I got straight to work.

With everything finally back together and in good running order after a test run, I was finally able to leave. I packed my bags, said goodbye to everyone. After spending three weeks in one place, I actually felt a bit nervous to be back on the road again, with the unexplored places ahead of me.

Goodbye Goa!

Beautiful Hampi

Posted on March 21, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 1 Comment

I walk around the township of Hampi, with a clear head. I was finally awake enough to see the finer details. Lining the streets was small tourist trinket shops all begging you to come into there shops. I walked straight pasted and headed for the surrounding rocks, temples and stones.

It is really hard to write about this town, so I am just going to post photographs to show you what is like. To date this is my favorite place in India. I could have stayed here for much longer, but I had to get somewhere to organize my Pakistan visa.

In the morning the cows were herded through the city to the feild

These are a lot like the round fishing boats I saw in Vietnam

I watched this woman curl up in the shade of this stone and fall sleep… Indians can sleep anywhere

I came across this tree, it had small bags and cloth tied to the tree with stones to weight it down

And piles of stones around the base of the tree

A woman carrying refreshments on her head

No matter where you go in India you always find a single shoe

Another one

Everyone in the world has to do their washing, its a common thing which i love to look at.

Filling up their water buckets

A small detail carved into the temple walls

On my second day of wondering, I got out my Ipod, listening to Indian

I actually just finished filming myself when I turned around and nearly stood on this guy. Thats before he climbed the wall!

And one more lost shoe – does the owner walk with only one on to go home?

http://www.youtube.com/get_player

Video – please visit my website as the video does not work in email form.

http://www.motomonkeyadventures.com/Australia-Africa-Blog.htm

Every morning, I would come out of my guest house to find these goat still in bed!

I walked to the top of the mountain that towers above the village. I had to be very careful as the huge pieces of stone were actually quite loose and in some places I had to climb over large bolders

http://www.youtube.com/get_player

Video – please visit my website as the video does not work in email form.

http://www.motomonkeyadventures.com/Australia-Africa-Blog.htm

On the other side, I found nice new set of stairs.

Every time i turned around I could help but gasp at the contrast between the natural stone and the carefully constructed stone stair case.

At the bottom, I found myself in this tiny path, coming around the corner I scared the living s**t out of myself and a local!

I ended up here, in an over grown field.

20th of March

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 3 Comments

A common question that is always pops up from my friends, family and readers is, ‘why are you doing this?‘. I have many answers to that question ranging from the simple – ‘I love to travel‘, to more in depth answers such as ‘wanting to inspire people- especially women- to take a leap off the fence and follow their desires.’ But even these answers had to come from somewhere and I have realised mine come directly from my family.

It helped to have two parents who took me travelling through Europe at the age of seven. Hearing stories of my father travelling through Africa in his tweenies and being home schooled from the most beautiful and remote part of New Zealand also helped. But what it really boils down to is one event that happened in my family almost ten years ago.

When I was 20 years old my mother (aged 37) was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. No matter how much fighting my mother did, it sadly took her away from us only six months later. Breast cancer, we have since discovered runs in our family genes. Three out of four women (my mother and two of her sisters) have had breast cancer. Thankfully for us the other two sisters are survivors. We are now finding out that some of us in the next generation also have this deformity in our genes.

At that time of my mothers death, I felt as if I was bumbling along in life. Borrowing dreams of others, not caring about my own future or love of life. It seamed as if that was to be my life. When I finally woke from the daze of mourning my mother several months later, I opened my eyes with a fresh view of life. I could now see so much potential in myself, something that I now realise that my parents were trying to give me all along with my quirky up bringing.

Because of my mothers short life, I now have a complete understanding of how brief life can be. Not wanting to waste a single moment and having inherrited my mothers stubborn ways, I have the urge to attempt every dream I have. This is why you now find me in India on a motorcycle,planning to reach and circumnavigate Africa, hoping I open your eyes up to the world as my mother did for me.

On an Indian ferry on my way to Anjuna Markets in Goa

From Dawn to Dusk Over Three Towns

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Motomonkey in India No Comments

The sun hadn’t peered over the surrounding hills to burn the light fog that hung in the air. Shivering as I loaded my bike, I was hungry and felt dirty as I hadn’t been able to force my body into the freezing cold water for the entire time I’ve been here. There were only three guys to watch me today, two of which I had to wake up and ask them to move their car in order for me to get my bike out of the secure area. I warmed my engine and left town before anyone could miss me.

The rays of light laid its warm fingers on me as I followed the winding road higher into the hill, dipping in and out of the cool crevasse that formed the valleys. As time fell away I could see people starting to stir and move their stiff joints into the sun.

Arriving at the saddle of the hill, I peered over the edge down the steep road that wound its way to a plateau that open out in front of me. The road was so narrow and with one bend after another, I was forced to hold my thumb firmly over the horn to ensure people do not blindly come around the corner on the wrong side of the road. I was expecting to hit a wall of heat as soon as I arrived at the bottom of the hill, but surprisingly it was still really quite cool.

Tea Plantation

A barrier that blocked the road was lifted by a young man dress in a tidy crisp clean police uniform. Not know what it was for and I wasn’t about to stop and ask, I rode under the rising boom gate and kept on going. Passing one sign after another, stating ‘please do not to stop’, ‘Please do not get out of cars’ and ‘warning elephants may cross’. When I passed a ‘Warning tigers may cross’ sign I had to stop and take a picture as I just realised I had entered into a national park. I was trying to shove my nervous thoughts aside, as this was real life training for Africa. The problem was, I never saw a single piece of wildlife except for one bird doing the suicide dive in front of my bike.

Before I knew it, the barrier to indicate I was now leaving the park was in front of me, so I rode under it as it was starting to rise. Sadly, I hit the busy main road to took me directly to central city of Mysore.

Riding into Mysore, I instantly fell in love with the place. It was a nice, clean and quiet city. I found the hotel within minutes and a few moments later was shown to the last single room available. Again the room reflected the city, as it was amazingly clean and really cheap. Walking into the bathroom I discovered I had hotwater! Standing under the steaming water, I felt my muscles relaxed and the grime of three days dissolved down into the drain pipe.

This is my lovely room in Mysore

And its hot water shower!

Incense sticks, piles of colourful pigments, flowers and essential oils all leaped out at me as soon as I walked through the concrete arch into the central market. Between the smells and the visual delights, I couldn’t decide which alley way to walk down. Making a sharp right I walk down one, only to be pulled into a small store. ‘Your from Australia!’ A store owner exclaimed.

‘No, I work in Australia.’ knowing full well he was reading my Australian Geographic tee-shirt I was wearing.

‘Have you seen this before?’ pointing to the individual bins of neatly piled pigments.

‘No, actually I haven’t', quietly dieing to take a photo but not wanting to purchase anything, I may just have my chance here.

‘Come, you mix these with water’ as he puts a small spoon into a bowl then mix it with a few drops of water made intense pink paint. Grabbing my hand he draws a small flower. Dropping my hand, he picks up a bottle on essential oil. ‘Here try this…’ Before he could dab my neck with this strong smelling stuff, I stepped back and said ‘ No, I’m allergic to that stuff’

It was one small white lie but I really do not like strong smelling stuff. Walking off, I felt a bit bad as he tried his best to sell me stuff I just cannot carry on my bike.

The next aisle I came upon happened to be crammed full of people all trying to bargain hard, yelling over each other for a bag of flowers. Piles of white and yellow flowers stood high in each booth, with men sitting behind carefully stuffing them into plastic bags. Some people sat in the middle of the aisle, threading flowers onto a thin white cotton thread. The long lengths were also sold to people per centimetre. These were also for praying, for tieing into girls hair and to make your car smell nice.

The next day I walked down to the Palace, after I walked around the outside taking a few photos trying to capture the complete building. I was then forced to put my camera away in a special storage box. Moving onto the next storage building I deposited my shoes with the man and received my token. Following everyone into the palace, I found myself for once pleasantly surprised at how beautiful the palace was. The intricate details in concrete, metal and glass mixed with the perfect colour combination. I just stood there letting people pass me, as I stood gazing around me, sucking in all the details.

I found this link on the internet, which will give you a 360 deg view of the palace.http://www.mysorepalace.tv/360_Eng/index.html

While I was gazing about me, I stood in a small puddle. Shaking the droplets off my bare foot I looked up and saw a woman pull the pants off a small crying child. Slightly disgusted, but at the same time remembering my younger brother doing similar stuff when he was that age.

Here are some internal shots stolen from the internet – since they didn’t allow me to have the camera

The walls were lined with paintings dictating the history of the palace.

The golden door

These columns were made in England and sent over here. The stain glass ceiling (not shown) as also sent over

Faster than I wanted I found myself in the bright sun. Hopping across the hot pavers, I wanted to head to the armory. I had heard and read that the armoury was really amazing. But as I stood outside the entrance hopping from one foot to the other I was disappointed and annoyed that I had to pay another 250 IRP on top of the 200 IRP I paid to enter the building (locals only pay 20 IRP for each). This I think is a massive scam and I wasn’t going to be a part of it. My feet burning on the hot pavement, I ran back into the mayhem of the shoe deposit to collect my shoes.

Before I left the next morning, I met a couple who spent last year travelling around the north on a Royal Enfield. Leaving India three months later completely hating the traffic, the people etc. Only to return this year to try it again, as a normal tourist, and now they love India, finding this way a much better way to travel. I couldn’t argue with them, in fact I was already thinking I don’t think I will bring a motorcycle into India again.

That day I had a short ride to Bangalore. I didn’t want to go to this large busy city, but I wanted to drop into a special shop that deals with Indian block printing from the north states of India.

I did some research and found a local hotel that has secure, off the street parking. Got into a tuk tuk and drove to the shop – the tuk tuk driver didnt take my instructions, he drove slowly past a golf course and repeating ‘Nothing is here look!’ I knew that there was a golf course and we had to go past it, it would have been easier if he turned when I said so. Then he stops just before a large busy intersection. ‘Look there is nothing here’

‘Just drive, its over there’ pointing past the intersection.

‘No that just goes to airport’

Impatient I leaped out of the tuk tuk and storm straight through the middle of the intersection. He must have realised he didn’t get my his money and chased me across the intersection, pulling up next to me yelling about his money.

‘No way, you didn’t take me to the place, so you get no money. I clearly showed you the address, I have a map and you still don’t take me to the right place. So no money!’ This isn’t normally what you would do but I had completely lost it. Built up stress about the traffic, crazy drivers, mixed with a shitty city and a lazy driver just tipped me over the edge. He then agreed, ok, ok I will take you just get back into the tuk tuk. I get back in and he drives me 10 meters to my destination. Even more upset, I get out slam the money hard into his hand and said ‘You do not deserve this money’

Walking up to the shop, I tried to calm down and be normal. The shops guard saw everything, I hang my head in shame and force a smile and a quick hello to him. As soon as I entered the shop, all my tension dissolved as I was stunned at the amazing fabrics, clothing and bits and pieces that were for sale. Finally I found something that was a nice mixture of traditional technique with western taste.

Later I walk back to my guest house, I was asked several times along the way if I need a tuk tuk but when I said I just want to go to a hotel, they refused me and said we only do shopping trips.

Coming from a peaceful town of Mysore to this horrible city, all I felt like doing is hiding in my room. So that’s exactly what I did, I hid in my room watching tv and only ventured out for dinner. I set my alarm for 6 am the next morning, and left 30 minutes later. The best thing about leaving this early, was the fact there was no traffic on the road and I was able to take it easy guiding myself out of the city, stopping to ask directions from time to time.

I had a long day ahead of me, it was around 340 km to Hampi. The first 2/3 of my day was on a wide open motorway. Completely boring, but necessary to complete the kilometres I was hoping to do. When I stopped to fill my motorcycle up with fuel I found out that either I was suddenly using more fuel or someone had taken some the night before in the hotel parking lot. This just added to my pile of grudges against Bangalore.

The last 70 kilometres was on a small local road, worn with years of heavy trucks. Dust filled pot holes made the trucks slow right down, but I was able to dart around them fairly quickly and arrive into Hampi at mid afternoon. Completely exhausted and dusty. I fell asleep on my bed waking just in time to watch the warm sun set behind the beautiful smooth stones.

Onwards to Ooty

Posted on March 7, 2011 by Motomonkey in India No Comments

I left Colin and Daphne behind in Kolvam as their bike needed a new fork seals and a few other minor repairs, I headed off to my next destination. I was lucky as I had meet another Dutch couple who travelled in India every year for four months at a time , on their Royal Enfield. They were able to tell me that if I follow the state highway north to Alleppey, I was going to be driven mad with the amount of traffic. Therefore I should turn off and ride on the smaller road that runs parallel with it. Taking note of their suggestion, I left but I was unsure how I was going to get onto this road.

On a closer look the boats panels are stitched together

Sure enough I was stuck in hectic, unpredictable traffic that stopped a lot. Within minutes I was hot and bothered. I then saw a brand new intersection, with a massive sign pointing down there. I had no idea where that town was, but it was pointing in the direction of the quieter road I had been told about. I double backed and turned down it. I was alone on this wide newly paved road. Sweeping past the odd truck or bus, I felt myself cheering up. But it still was nothing like the amazing day before.

I followed the road for ages, watching the sun’s shadows to see which direction I was heading in. Itseemed to me I was heading in the right direction and could have possibly ended up on the right road! A name of a township matched my map and I could finally confirm this indeed was the right road. But I think this road has since been developed since the last time the Dutch couple drove down it, at least there wasn’t heaps of traffic.

Several hours later, I turned off and followed a small road that links back up to the main highway just south of my destination for that day. As I rode along this road, I had local families in saloon cars slow to match my speed, winding their windows down to take photographs of me. All smiling and giving me the thumbs up before leaving me in their dusty wake.

I was passing amazing canals, some larger than others. The smaller ones were over grown with lotus plants. I could see men dressed only in a sarong, pushing their long sleek brown boat down the canal only using a stick. On the larger canals, I saw large houseboats either tied to the dock or in full steam. These houseboats were constructed from timber but have a woven palm leaf thrown over to create shade on one of the balconies. I’ve always wanted to live in/on a boat, these are like floating mansions.

When I arrived into the township, I found the cheapest guest house to date (in India) at 125 IPR ($2.70 AUS). The only down side was I had to park the bike on the street, without any security fence. My room was really nice, its was just a simple plain concrete room and for this price included an ensuite, which smelt like sewerage (I think they do not design air traps within their sewerage pipes which prevents this from happening in our own homes). That night, I couldn’t help waking at every yell or bang that came from the street. I wasn’t able to check on my bike as it was under a huge verandah, blocking my view from the balcony above.

I had to decided if I was going to go on one of these boat trips. It was expensive, for twenty-four hours of floating time including all meals it was going to cost me over $100 AUS. For me this was the equivalent of four days of travelling. I couldn’t justify it, and that day I decided to leave.

I had another worry appearing in front of me. I knew I was going to have to deal with it sooner or later, so with me being me, I tried to sort most of it out right then and there. I rang the Pakistan Embassy in New Delhi and ask directly if they are issuing visa for foreigners. The answer was no, only for Indians. This matched the information I had received through the internet. I asked about a shorter transit visa and they had no idea what I was talking about, therefore I hung the phone up with a sinking feeling.

I had two other back up plans. First one was to contact the Pakistan Embassy in Australia and the second was to ship my bike around Pakistan. As you can imagine, I wasn’t very happy about the second option, it’s not what I had planned and it was quite a costly exercise. But if forced to I will do it.

I rang the Embassy in Australia and they told me I could get a visa through them, it takes around a week. Excited, I explained the whole circumstances - I am in India, I am a New Zealander and my friend Melanie will be sending you my passport on my behalf. This was all fine, except for the issue I wasn’t Australian. You need to attach a copy of your residency visa or apply in New Zealand. New Zealanders do not require a residency visa or anything, the embassy should know this! I also didn’t want to apply in New Zealand, as I don’t have any bank accounts or a return address in New Zealand. They finally saw my point and asked if I can attach anything that will prove I am a resident of Australia, which of course I could supply, bank accounts, drivers licence and medicare card. With that problem solved, I was happy.

I decided to jump past the capital of Kerala, instead travelled further north via the same quiet road I took the day before completely bypassing the city. I ended up in a small town called Thrissur. A small town with a central temple. The wooden gate house had amazing details and I was really interested in entering the temple but was turned away because I wasn’t a Hindu.

My room I got for the night was on the fifth floor. While taking the elevator up, another tourist stepped into the lift. ‘Oh my, another white person! Its been months since I’ve seen one’. I knew exactly how she felt even though two days ago I was at a beach full of them.

I’ve decided to move more quickly than I had been in Tamil Nadu, I was starting to worry about how long I was going to be without a passport, and had to find a place that would be perfect to bunker down in for a few weeks while I waited for it to be returned to me. Plus my Indian visa is only for three months, and I haven’t seen anything in the north yet!

Leaving Thrissur around 7am, after grabbing only a coffee as none of the food shops had opened. I will have to stop along the way. Today was going to be a long day, the kilometres were not great, it was the fact I will be heading back up into the cool mountains where you are forced to travel a lot slower.

Sure enough I arrive into Ooty around four in the afternoon. Despite the fact I have a town map ripped out of my guide book and stuffed into my tank bag map holder, I still got lost in the town and for ages could not find the town centre. When stopping to ask locals, they often (like us) get our left and rights mixed up, therefore I had to reverse their instructions and eventually, I found it and found a nice quiet guest house just out of the town centre with lockable motorcycle parking.

After four days of travelling quite quickly, I was a bit exhausted and spent the next day wandering around this cute small village with its rickety houses and narrow paths between. People raved about this town, but even though I was enjoying the cool air and a rest, I saw nothing to hold me here for any longer. Tomorrow I will move on again.

Ooty’s market

I loved the grass growing on the roofs

Fishing Villages and Coconut Coir Makes a Great Day

Posted on March 4, 2011 by Motomonkey in India 1 Comment

With the usual start to the morning, answering questions fired at me by the locals that surround me. I now have proof as Daphne takes a picture.

Colin, Daphna and I join motorcycle teams to ride together to the next destination. Heading out of Kanyakumari, two kilometres later we arrived into our destination, a small village of Kovalam! Laid out before us was brightly painted buildings, stacking themselves on top of each other, ensuring that everyone got a view. The tiny fishing village lacked all the tourist amenities we had heard Kovalam was renown for. Turning towards each other we laughed as this was another case of another village having the same name.

Because our destination wasn’t very far away (less than 80 kilometres), not only did we start later in the day, but we could take it easy and follow the coast as much as possible, turning off the straight and busy main state highway onto the calmer, narrow local roads.

These roads were beautiful. We found ourselves riding under huge coconut tree plantations, past people making ‘Coir’ from coconut husks and through colourful fishing villages. At times we would turn down a road only to discover that it was a dead end which would force us to ride back to the main road to try yet another one.

Photo By Daphne

Extract from Wiki -

Coir is a natural fibre extracted from coconut husk and used in products such as floor mats, doormats, brushes, mattresses etc. Technically Coir is the fibrous material found between the hard, internal shell and the outer coat of a coconut. Other uses of brown coir (made from ripe coconut) are in upholstery padding, sacking and horticulture. White coir is harvested from unripe coconuts, and is used for making finer brushes, string, rope and fishing nets

We rode along a narrow paved road that was on top of the dunes. On one side of us was a line of tightly packed in, colourful houses and on the other side was a steep drop to the white sandy beach with the blue ocean beyond. It was so beautiful, so calm and so quiet. I wished I could have stopped there for a few days, sat back and put up my feet. The road finished at a high pile of sand and we were forced to turn around. A lady dressed in a beautiful sari with tiny diamanties sparkling in the bright sun, stepped out into the road and pointed down the a narrow path between two houses. I took her directions as instructions, and turned my bike down the path. Colin and Daphne followed. We popped out onto the ‘real’ road behind the houses, where we could happily carry on along the beach.

At one point Colin and Daphne were in front. We were riding along a paved road but we couldn’t see the sea as there was a high dune between us and the beach. With the feeling of the sun hitting my back, I was completely lost inside myself with pure enjoyment, I was almost singing!

A tuk tuk approached us, with a passenger in the back. This was nothing out of the ordinary until moments before passing Colin, the driver turned the wheel sharply forcing the tuk tuk to veer towards Colin. Colin reacts perfectly and quickly and moves the bike towards the left hand side of the road, meanwhile the tuk tuk straightens up and carries on. I can see the driver is laughing, while his passenger has his arms spread out, trying to brace himself with a look of horror on his face. I am completely shaken as to what I have just witness before me. Colin stops the bike and I ask if they both are ok. I can see in Colin’s eyes, that he is pretty upset by the whole ordeal and would love nothing better than to tell the guy how stupid he is, but he nods his head and starts the bike back up.

It’s a bonus to have a pillion passenger as they have both hands free to be able to take photos on the move. For the first time, I have a film of myself riding along, fully loaded, in a foreign country! Thanks a lot Daphne.

http://www.youtube.com/get_player

Please press play – Film By Daphne

Photo By Daphne

Photo By Daphne

Colin and Daphne have a section on their website where people can issue tasks for them to complete. After completion, the people who issue the task then pays them the value that they said they would. In this case for every photo taken with their initials on a street sign they get $1 each.

Photo By Colin

Colin and Daphne on their Royal Enfield

Earlier, I had explained to Colin and Daphne that there were days where you completely forgot about food or you just couldn’t find a place to stop to have lunch, therefore skipping lunch all together. Today was one of those days, as a lot of the villages were just too poor or too small to have restaurants. Eventually we found one, and parked our bikes outside, perpendicular to the kerb, exactly how I would at home. I had long since stopped parking my bike like this, as locals always tell me to re-park. I could never fathom out why.

The restaurant we ended up in was a true local one. Daphne complained about the cockroaches running around the green walls which were heavily marked with years of filth. We ordered curry and parotta’s which came on the usual banana leaf. While we sat there, Colin noticed a wrinkly old man with an extreme rubber face sitting on the table next to us, having his afternoon chai and cake. Colin pulled out his camera and filmed the movements of his face.

http://www.youtube.com/get_player

Please press play – Film by Colin

We had completely lost track of time as we discovered it was now four o’clock. I could feel myself wearing out as I normally liked to arrive at my destination by now. The problem was we had no idea where we were or how far we had to go. Taking a stab, I guess we should have already reached the province of Keralla by now, therefore must be close to our destination. To save some time, we stopped fooling around and turned back onto the state highway and joined the bumper to bumper traffic we had avoided up until then.

Twenty minutes later, we passed under a huge sign slung across the road ‘Welcome to Keralla’. I didn’t need to look at my map to realise we had spent most of the day wandering around in the province of Tamal Nadu, which was only a third of what we had to do that day! Despite the traffic, we covered ground relatively quickly and arrived into Kolvam beach an hour later.

I was pre-warned that Kolvam was a resort beach, but I still wasn’t prepared for the view that opened out before me as I turned the last corner before the beach. A pedestrian-only paved boulevard ran alongside the beach, separating the restaurants, hotels and trinket shops from the sand. On the beach there were masses of white bodies, dressed only in tiny swimmers draped over day beds. It’s been over a month since I’ve seen this many tourist in one place, not to mention seeing this much skin exposed.

To end the perfect day, Colin and I sat down and shared a beer, while we watch the sun dip into the hazy horizon. It was really nice to have company once again, riding along, giggling and making fools of ourselves. One of the best riding days I’ve had in India, it will take a lot to top.

Photo By Colin

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