To Kathmandu

It was hard to leave Pohkara, particularly after so long out of the saddle but finally we pulled out of town with only 200kms to Kathmandu. At first the road was built up and uninteresting but soon we were again amoungst the rice fields and villages. We had heard that Bandipur was a town worth visiting and lay only 8kms of our route an easy days ride away. At the junction however the road slanted steeply up and there stood two cycle-tourists the first we had met in months.
Sophie and David were Austrailian and had been on the road 3 months through India and Nepal. They had tried to reach Bandipur, found it too steep and come back down again. As they looked much fitter than us we also declined the incline and together we stayed in Dumre, a village in the valley where we swapped tales from the tarmac.
Next day we walked together up a flight of steps through the forrest to Bandipur visiting Nepals larges cave system on the way. The village contained the finest architechture we had yet seen in the country which was unexpected in a hilltop settlement. Walking down another extensive ancient stepped path we reached our hotel just before dark. A wonderful unexpected day.
Our intention was to cycle together to Ghorka again uphill off the main road but I came down with a fever after only a few kms and had to hole up in the next town. I hated being the weak member of the group but we had to let the Ausies go on without us. It turned out I had contracted somehow Gardia, strange after such a long time of good health. We always filtered water and I still am not sure how I got it, though I blame eating Buffallo after 4 months of vegetarianism. I am back on the rabbit food. No, I jest, eating meat here is pretty unnecessary.
A day in bed shivering saw me strong enough to cycle though slowly and after another night in Adamgaht, a small village with a great little guest-house run by a friendly young chap called Kas Kumar (or similar) we climbed up towards the pass that would lead us into the Kathmandu valley.
As we reached the pass a few spots of rain fell but as we crossed it this turned to a thunderstorm with hard hail. Misjudging the severity we got soaked and cold as we hurried into the city and dove into a cheap hotel.
We were informed the next day that Tibet would be closed for the whole of March and there was no chance of us entering before April. If then. Bad news. This meant we would have to wait or fly to China. The route through Myanmar to Thailand being also shut to overland travellers. Deciding to wait we took a cheap apartement in Kahtmandu in a street believe it or not named Freak Street, where all the Hippies hung out in the seventies. We look over an interesting square and wander occasionally into this lively city.
In a few days we will go walking once more, this time in the Langtang Himalaya. There are worse places to kill time.

Night on a Bare Mountain

See Slideshow for Photographs


So there we were in Pokhara. Described as one of the most beautiful places on Earth, nestled at the feet of the Mighty Annapurna Himalaya. We stayed 4 or 5 days but visibility was bad. From the feet we could not see the knees let alone the lofty head of Annapurna 1 over 7000m somewhere above us.
Anja had for many years a small guidebook to a circular walkway in this region and had dreamt of one day hiking it. Here we were. We arrived full of enthusiasm and ready to start only to be knocked back a bit. First by the cold and foggy weather, secondly by the news that the 'treck' srarted a 5 hour bus ride away and thirdly by the fact that everyone we spoke to, Nepali and foreigner, said that at this time of year we would not succeed. Especially without a guide and porters.
I wanted to believe this was hype, a ploy to drum up custom for the locals. Fair enough but we could not afford nor wanted accompanyment. We had a map and a compass and no-one had ever carried my bags before. Why let them now.
It seemed the problem was not only the cold and snow in Jan-Feb, the possibility of getting lost on a mountainside in a blizzard etc. but the altitude. We were, it seemed unaware of the famous 'Thorong-La', highest (so we were told) pass in the world at 5416m which we would have to cross if we wanted to walk the 300km circuit.
'Had we done anything like this before'... 'Well.. no. Not at altitude'.
I began to get a bit depressed after we were told story after story of illness and death on the 'Pass' from avalanche, cold and altitude sickness. It seemed though thousands of people walked this way in the 'season' by no means all made it. Particularly not in the middle of winter.
Luckily we met Kido, a 30 year member of the findhorn community in Scotland who came to Nepal every year and had crossed the pass many times. He said that a fit young (ha ha) pair like us should have no real problems with the altitude if we followed the advice. The cold, well, just take the right kit and as for getting lost in the snow; wait for a guided group to go over and follow their footprints. You'll have a great time.
'Its attitude not altitude that is the problem' were his parting words 'Oh and the locals eat lots of Garlic soup, it helps'
We set off the next morning
A long bus journey was not for us so we took a local bus out of town and walked 2 days to the 'official' start point. The bus trip was one of those adventurous mountan-track journeys one so often hears about. Through rivers, around perilous hairpin bends and all on a trail a landrover would have struggled with. We were sitting up front and at times Anja, in the corner was hanging over a precipice as the front wheel rolled inches from the drop. The driver was good, relaxed but not too much so as he judjed perfectly the amount of turns on the steering-wheel needed to take up the considerable slack in the linkage and bring us safely round the bend. We had seen already enough overturned buses in Nepal to know every trip like this was an adventure. The local folks seemed to know this too.
After only one minor accident we arrived safely in the village of Karputar 550m above sea-level where we set off on foot confidently. We got lost an hour later on finding our map, though apparently good, was almost impossible to read. We reverted to our finding the way by asking technique which with the aid of some goat perfumed old women, brought us the first evening to the foot of a jungled mountain. We crossed a comically classic rotten-wood suspension bridge to a lonely dwelling where we were kindly taken in, fed, watered and wined by an old farmer and his family.
Next morning setting off early we climbed steeply through the forrest to the village of Namla and emerged into a paradise world of step stone steps leading from village to village through rice terraced hills framed at long last by the snowy peaks of the high Himalayas. The fog was finally left behind and it was clear in our minds that we were going to get over the high pass. We had cycled here all the way (nearly) from Devon, a short walk over some hills should be easy.
The next days were hot and our packs heavily laden with an assortment of second hand warm clothing bought in Pokhara. The path dropped steeply to Buhlbuhle where our permits were stamped at a police checkpoint and we entered the Annapurna conservation area. We were to walk up the valley of the Marsyangdi Nadi for pretty much the next week. Ever higher and higher. Jungle turned to Rhododendron forrest then to tall pine which gave way to blue pine then Leylandii amoungst low prickly bushes and a few wild narcissi.
There are times in life where you are suddenly aware that you are alive. That your life is both vitally important and at the same time insignificant in the giant machinations of planet and universe. I felt both big and small in this wonderfull valley, sometimes way above the ice-blue river, often crossing it on now substantial, Swiss designed suspension bridges.
Saying goodbye to the last of the trees as snow began to fall, we walked through a barren brown landscape into Manang, the last real village before Thorong La.
All advice was to spend a day here acclimatising and from now on to follow the two steps forward one back technique: arrive at a lodge at 3pm, climb at least 300m then descend to sleep as low as possible. Mild headaches and insomnia we were told was normal at 4000m.
Two more easy days brought us to Thorong Phedi, our last overnight before a 1000m dash over the pass.
Until Manang we had met few other 'trekkers' but now we were on the same schedule as a fit and fast French group and a slower and suffering Ausie/Canadian bunch both equipped with numerous guides and porters some of whom carried two rucksacks bound together and thier own small pack on top. More it seemed than the mule-trains we had passed lower down. Too cold for them up here in winter.
We got on well with the French contingent who said they were leaving at 3am to cross Thorong. They should reach the pass at sunrise and therefore avoid the ferrocious wind that apparently picks up as the day gets older. The other group was leaving at 4am and we decided to sandwhich ourselves between the two. We would have footprints to follow and help behind if we got into trouble.
Things had gone our way. The weather was perfect and we set off under a sky with more stars than space shortly after the Gallic group.
Air is thin at 5000m. Our lungs were wringing every last drop of oxygen out of it and we were exhaling frosty clouds of garlic dioxide (GO2) ? Anja I soon realised is half mountain goat, maybe himalayan blue-sheep. We caught up with the Froggies who looked like miners going to work, zig-zagging above, head-lamps all in a row. Past the dead Yak seen the day before, past High-Camp (closed) and into the last stretch.
I imagined I was gallantly bringing up the rear, a notion that was shattered as Anja skipped over a steep snow-covered scarp and I faltered. Ice and mud were frozen in a lump to the soles of my mountain-bike boots and my wind-up torch ran down as my foot slipped I dared not let go my stick to wind it up. I made the mistake of pointing the fast fading beam into the void. If I lost my footing I was gone. Suddenly my imagination got the better of me. What the hell was I doing in the dark on a snowface, 3 miles up with no torch, wrong shoes and a stick cut out of the woods. I tell myself it was the cold or thelack of air but I know it was fear. My knees began to shake. I thought this was a myth promoted by the Beano comic. A pathetic 'wait for me' was sucked up unheard by the sound hungry night.
'Get a grip' I told myself 'Don't think just move your feet, you have crossed far worse in the Alps'.
Every pound wheighs double this high and I wanted to throw off my pack. After a long 4 seconds, stuck, my mind got control once more of my body and I moved forward. The next mistake I made was hurrying to catch up the others. Speed is not possible, I was brought up sharp, leaning on my stick and gasping in vain like a goldfish on a carpet. On the next steep snowface I did not look down. I moved my feet like an automaton and was glad to later overhear an Alpine Frenchman saying he had to do the same.
Dawn arrived quickly and on time. Suddenly we were there. The top. 'Congratulations and 'Tres bien faitez' all round. It was cold. Damn cold. Anja's watch thermometer read -10c before we left then went into hibernation. Our hot lemon tea had frozen solid in the first half hour. (remember to drink, drink, drink). The waterproof rucksack material was stiff to the point of snapping. Three photo's was the maximum possible without gloves. Cold on the fingers seemed to skip the usual first stages and went straight to numb. We were all euphoric. We had all made it. It wasn't really that hard after all.
Dropping the 1600m to Muktinath was a pleasure, stripping off a layer every 10 minuites in the morning sun and finally being able to breath some thicker air oncemore. Hell of a day.

Brimming with confidnce after our pass success we decided to take a detour to Kagbini a recommended village. We were soon following a solitary set of footprints up to a saddle. 3000ft below was the river valley we needed to get to but we lost the footprints in the thaw and were left on pony paths heading what seemed the wrong way. The map, we had long ago realised was not detailed enough. An unmarked wrinkle in a valley could mean a drop of a few thousand feet to a dead end or only to climb out again. At this altitude this could mean half a day at least.
Eventually we cut accross country heading down towards a gorge, trusting to find a way to the river. My mind is trained on smaller landscapes and I misjudged the scale of these hills. Luckily I looked back to Anja and realised I had crossed a path at right-angles; one going our way.
Trusting in the sheep-trail to know its way down the cliff, like believing in a horse to find its way home, we followed hoping there would be no impossible ice on the way. Streams flowing over the paths here often freeze into impressive ice-fountains, dangerous to cross. We were in luck and wound our way down to the broad river-bed. Home and dry.
We had been finding ammonite fossils all day but a vertical beach making up a whole cliff face, complete with preserved sand ridges and tiny sea snail fossils was a geologists dream. Later we saw a similar formation making up part of a village street.
Kagbeni was a square housed, flat roofed village looking upriver to the upper Mustang region, an arid, Tibetan type landscape in which we were not permitted. We stayed a few days.

Having failed to learn our lesson we daily tried to take unmarked trails down the long, descending Kali Nandaki Nadi valley on the opposite side to the dusty track. Often we were rewarded by needle-carpeted and magical paths through the ever thickening pine-woods, not unlike the Alps. The occasional lumberjack felled with an axe, squared up with an adze and called his son to help plank-up with a pit-saw. I realised I had not heard the nag of a chainsaw in either India or Nepal. Often though, our alternative route took us over fresh or live landslips and once to an abrupt cliff- face. No option but an about turn, backtracking and an after dark, sore-footed arrival in the next village. Luckily though, this temperate band was the apple capital of Nepal and he resulting brandy could compete with the best calvados. Aching soles soon forgotten.
In this valley we were meeting more hikers. In the evenings anyway. We spent a nice one with a French couple from Arcachon and a Dutch guy, Mink. sipping apple-brandy before a rare open fire.
Further down we met again two Russian girls with whom we walked a day or two. Another sociable night was spent with this entertaining pair and two Germans, Edwin and Isabel. It turned out that Anja had a mutual friend, Petra, in Reutlingen and Anja had heard of Isabels travels in Australia. They were taking a different route but maybe we will walk together in the Swabish Alb sometime in the future.

After 3 weeks walking through many different climates, from the land of hindu temples to that of Buhddist prayer wheels and flags; through the realms of the jungle pheasant to the home of the highplains partridge and the Yak. The people here live far away from the hectic world of the automobile, a quiet existance though a hard one. The slopes are too steep for tractors and often settlements are connected by steps rather than paths which should keep mules and ponies in employ for years to come. I recommend this 'tea house' trek to all. We will hopefully be privelidged enough to someday return to this area.

Nepal

So we finally left India and crossed the border into Nepal. The journey through the sub- continent, 4000 km through the largest democracy on the planet ended at a quiet border-post on the stony banks of the Khola river. We were the only customers checking out at this friendly post. The only traffic was the odd bicycle or pony-cart taxi struggling up the rocky bank to cross the bridge. The locals needed no visa.
I have never been anywhere quite so culturally different from western Europe. It seemed everything was done differently in India. I must admit that I leave the country not more informed, enlightened and with an understanding of its culture or cultures but only aware that I am more ignorant about more things than I thought I was. I know we are all supposed to be culturally sensitive in these modern times, but I could not help feeling that many of Indias problems exist because of the culture and not despite it, religion being a huge controlling factor and perhaps also an excuse which many things are hidden behind.
I found the Indians often not the easiest of people to like and had to repeat to myself the advice my friend Ricky who had been there a lot gave me; no matter what happens just keep smiling. I tried also to stop thinking how things could be better here if only people would clean this or repair that and so on. 'If I was king'type of thoughts in India are about as useful as those about re-arranging the stars.
US. President Obama's visit here was all over the papers soon after we arrived and the articles gave the impression that he was complimenting India on having a billion middle-class. In all the miles and through the hundreds of villages, towns and cities we passed through we found them hard to find. Yes we met some educated and wealth families but the sanitized world of new cars, cleaning products and skin-lightening creams portrayed on the TV adverts largely eluded us. We passed only one shopping center with a McDonalds on the outskirts of a city so maybe we were looking for the wrong thing. I asked an Englishman but 20 year resident here what 'middle-class' actually meant here. Did it mean you had a motorcycle? He laughed at the 1 Billion figure and said he was not sure either but perhaps it meant you simply had a job.
Our life on the bikes was one travelling through a world of beat-up buses and buffalo's. I tried to put thoughts of problems and solutions away and pay attention to the smaller details and the changes in landscape and people as we made our way North.
Anja would remark upon the variations in both mens and womens clothing from one district to the next; small changes in Saris and headgear that would have gone unnoticed to me. I would point out the changes in cart or tuck-tuck design. Behind the mass vehicle world of Tata, Mahindra, Hero-Honda or Maruti-Suzuki was a complex one of the 'vernacular vehicle'. A certain design of ox-cart, rick-shaw and even locally made truck was often particular to a certain town. If a scooter was chopped and turned into a trike, we would see many in one town and then never again. Cow-carts changed to ox-carts to buffalo-carts to pony or camel-carts the constructions always different. The chassis and wheel construction would vary from wood to bamboo to steel re-bar. Sometimes the engine was one animal sometimes two. The buffalo themselves also seemed to change, those in the South having longer horns that swept impressively down the animals back.
The food of course also changed. Our favorite street food being a kind of yellow -rice concoction that sadly disappeared one day and we were back to samosas deep-fried in historic oil.
A constant was the overloud horn hooping, a simple motorbike being equipped with an array of sound devices capable of far exceeding any European decibel regulations. Our ears often hurt in town and countryside alike.
I expected Nepal, especially the Terai or lowland plain to be like another Indian state but as soon as we crossed the border things were different.
There is really only one road West to East through Nepal and we figured it would be busy and possibly unpleasant. The ride East then North to Pokhara turned out to be one of the nicest stretches on our trip. The traffic was mainly bicycles and the villagers had not yet bought into the great concrete-con to which the Indians had so largely succumbed. We were in grass thatched bamboo and mud-hut land. The young wheat was bright green in the paddy fields and there were marigold gardens and daily swept, hard packed mud yards. The crap and rubbish, so much a part of India seemed to be under control here. The people obviously had little money for the main part but grew almost all they needed. Perhaps my naive ideas of a rural idyll would be washed away with the first monsoon rains but although the weather was cold and mostly foggy we were happy to be here.
Bardia National Park is home to the rare one horned rhino, Bengal tiger leopards, pythons and other beasties from the jungle-book. We stayed a few days in a mud-hut guest house in the forest and went on a jungle walk with Baba and Krishna, two interesting young guides who were proud of West Nepal and wanted to help develop the tourism in this not so frequented corner in an environmentally friendly way and without all the trappings and problems of the more famous and visited areas. They were good trackers and we followed a mother rhino and babies footprints until we located them in some tall grass by one of the many dry riverbeds. We had to climb a tree to spot them maybe 30m away. Later we got close to an enormous python waiting for prey on a fallen tree. The tiger tracks were fresh in the mud but were sadly elusive that day.
We planned to hike into the mountains of the Jumla region with Baba but a few phone calls revealed there was just too much snow and it was too cold. Some poor villager got caught out at night with his mules and they all froze to death. It was damn cold down on the plains. We are not here at the best season.
In Butwal we turned North towards Pokhara, the base for some of Nepals best mountain trekking. What looked on the map like 60kms was in fact a 160km twisting mountain road that did its best to hug the natural contours up terraced or forested valleys but was forced repeatedly over ridges and down to the next river. We were slowly winching and worming our way into the Himalayas.

Right now we are in Pokhara, buying a few warm clothes and gleaning some valuable advice about the famous Annapurna trails, one of which would take us over some of the highest passes in the world. Some people say it is too cold right now and people are coming back with frostbite. Others say we should be ok, it depends on the weather when we get there. The trek could take us 3 weeks or so, more with side trips, acclimatisation and such. Whichever route we choose we will be off the radar so to speak for maybe a month so no blog posts for a while. (no change there then).

Eines ist sicher: Elephantenscheisse ist groesser als Kamelscheisse

Fleissig gestrampelt, viel gesehen, viel gegessen, viel Strassendreck geatmet, leider war ich aber ganz schreibfaul. Fernsehen im Hotelzimmer ist ein Kommunikationskiller.

Aber erst mal wuenschen wir Euch allen ein gesundes und glueckliches Neues Jahr. Macht das Beste draus!!

Wir haben das neue Jahr ganz unspektakulaer im Hotelzimmer mit "Alice im Wunderland" und "New Moon" verbracht. Keiine Party fuer uns in Rishikesh, und das Wetter lud auch nicht auf einen Spaziergang ein. Dafuer gab es eine sonnige Neujahrswanderung, endlich einen Berg besteigen, die Himalayaberge an den Fusssohlen kitzeln, sozusagen.
Seit einer Woche sind wir hier, die letzte Station vor der Grenze zu Nepal, in 5 Tagen werden wir dort sein, noch ca. 300km Radeln bis zum neuen Abschnitt der Reise. Einem bergigen Abschnitt. Schnee haben wir noch keinen gesehen, doch die lange Unterwaesche ist schon gekauft. Morgen geht es weiter, Auf Wiedersehen Lassi- und Englishbreakfeaststadt (und auf Wiedersehen internationale Yogaszene (die treiben hier zu Hunderten ihr Unwesen)).
Naja, und irgendwie habe ich mich auch die letzten Wochen an Indien gewoehnt. Die Nebenstrassen haben es uns leichter gemacht. Wunderschoene fremdartige Kulturlandschaften, wenig hupende und stinkende LKW´s, freundliche Landbevoelkerung. Einmal konnten wir sogar ungesehen unser Zelt aufschlagen und draussen schlafen. Eine schoene Abwechslung zum lausigen Hotel. Ich bin ein bisschen traurig, Indien zu verlassen, wer haett´s gedacht. Jemand hatt mal zu uns gesagt, Indien ist wie ein anderes Universum. Das ist eine gute Beschreibung. Ich werde ein paar gewohnte Bilder vermissen: Huehnerstraeusschen links und rechts am Fahrradlenker baumelnd, Wasserbueffel im Wasserloch, 5 Leute und 2 Ziegen auf einem Moped, in Decken gehuellte, einen Tee schluerfende Inder um ein Feuerchen, Frauen in Knallbunten Saris mit einem Turm Wasserkruege auf dem Kopf, Schweinekaempfe im Abwasserkanal, Kamel-, Esel-, Ochsen- und Bueffelkarren und dann die wunderbaren Obst- und Gemuesetuerme, kunstvoll aufgestapelt. Ach ja, eines meiner Lieblingsbilder sind die "Kuhkeksstapel": getrocknete Kuhfladen die aussehen wie Riesenkekse.
Die Inder sind die besten "Hochstapler".
Aber vielleicht komme ich ja mal wieder....
Auf Wiedersehen Indien, Hallo Nepal!
PS.: Auf den letzten Indienkilometern durfte ich noch einen Elefanten streicheln. Der war herrlich warm und ledrig. Mein erster Elefanantenkontakt ueberhaupt. Vorher konnten wir nur die imposanten Haufen auf der Strasse bestaunen.

Mandu to Rishikesh

Mandu to the Mountains

From Mandu we headed north towards Bundi, our next touristic destination. We stopped in Ujjain to visit some pilgrimage temples, they were colourful and all but I realized I had reached temple overload and was loosing interest in pink elephant-man sculptures. The town too was overbusy and full of giant 3-wheeled taxi's, clattering and puffing out black smoke from their exhausts by the front wheel. A system which poisoned not only passers by but passengers aswell. These must be one of the worst vehicles ever designed.
A few days on pleasant roads took us out of Madhya Pradesh and into Rajasthan. We were seeing more and more camels now and the first town we entered, Jhalrapatan, was an eye-opener. I have been to a few medieval fairs in Europe, the best was in the walled town of Visby on Götland, an island in the Baltic where the whole town stepped back into medieval life for a week. Jhalrapatan was the real thing. The circus was in town and had set up outside the walls and the accompanying temporary township was a sight to see; a Gypsy camp gone crazy. I was reminded a little of a Glastonbury type festival because of the buzz but the vehicles were camel or buffalo drawn, the tents were made from leaves and plastic and each family had brought all its livestock. Safety and sanitation came to my mind, I had no desire to take a ride on an unoiled merry-go-round let alone one on a fifth hand big-wheel which probably began life in Volgograd in the eighties. Call me chicken if you like but we don't cycle an hour here without seeing a truck with a wheel fallen off and some guys replacing shattered bearings. 'Don't fix what ain't broke' must written somewhere in ancient Hindu texts. We were funneled with the crowd through elephant gates in the city walls to a blue painted narrow maze of streets so busy with people that cars were excluded. For the first time in many weeks we now saw shops with all kinds of stuff for sale, not just the usual fried food, truck and motorbike parts. Some colour had returned to our world. We were in the land of the Kings.
Bundi was also a blue painted town. A beautiful one with a 14 story palace built against the mountainside and surrounded by miles of ridge running castellated walls. With a Tank or reservoir in the center of town this was a great place to spend a few days. Infact it was hard to leave but we wanted to see Pushkar, another pilgrimage town on the edge of the desert a few days north.
Pushkar was fun and we met some nice people there, Kate, a nurse from Cheddar and Gray, an Astrologist who had lived for years in Rishikesh, our next stop on the tourist trail and home of the Sadhu-Guru yoga spiritual healing hindu meditating fraternity. Apparently also a beautiful town on the banks of the Ganges, nestled into the foothills of the Himalayas. We wanted to be here for Christmas but it proved to be a couple of days too far for that. The ride though was one of the best we had in all of India. Out of the semi-desert through green fields and sparsely forrested and quiet Shekhawati region. We stayed in small towns along the backroads, Charawa being one of the best architecturally. We rode unknowingly out of Rajasthan and into Haryan where we saw our last camel. In Gohana, a friendly town we visited a family of teachers with prize-winning children and were taken home by a hotelier to eat with his family.
Christmas was spent in a small town called Shamli in a hotel where ten drunks were warming up the dance-floor for a wedding the following day. The decebael level in our room was well over the danger level but we sang 'Silent Night' at the top of our voices an headed out to eat alone in a large cold dining hall up the road. The food was good.
We finally rolled into Rishikesh where we spent the new year, met Volker our German friend and went walking in the mountains bordering the icy-blue Ganges which poured down from its Himalayan spring not far away.
Next stop Nepal.

Megadon road to Mandu

We have been on the temple-tour, slowly working our way north from Karnataka through Maharashtra to Madra Pradesh and are now in sight of Rajastan. In Badami, a normal noisy, dirty town were the most beautiful cave temples. With Volke, an Austrian playwrite we took a tuck-tuck trip to the impressive temples of Pattadakal. Bouncing down the backroads was a novel but uncomfortable way to travel. 'My god' said Volke, 'you must see some real rural India on the bicycles'.
'Sometimes it's a bit too bloody rural' I replied, thinking of our daily relationship with excrement on the roads. How for the last few hundred kms, on the edge of every village was a 50m breath holding zone. Of all the various and opposing words used by us foriegners to describe this land, 'clean' cannot be one that pops up very often

Next we saw the old fortified town of Bijapur, with large mosques, mausoleums, spiral watchtowers and huge cannons. What impressed the smith in me were a couple of 20m cannons each made from 200 fire-welded wrought-iron rings. I can only think they were made standing vertically and the fire moved upwards for every weld. An ambitious project and as they are still intact it would appear one that worked.

We had to take a major highway to Solapur. Gigantic six axled, overladen and undermaintained, highly decorated and home-made megadons crawled slowly past us. Contrary to popular belief these guys are non-aggressive and though they honk and snort they mean no harm and give one plenty of space if they can. They are so long that the grunting from the front end could no longer be heard when finally their tails dragged obediently by. More dangerous were the tyranosaurus-buses who liked to attack from the front but could be outsmarted by simply jumping into the dirt by the side of the road. Between these monsters wove silver-shrieking, carniverous, 4WD-velociraptors. Small, chickenlike-motorbikes clucked fussily as they passed. Ox-carts, dogs, cows, buffallo and gypsy camel-trains were indifferent to the pace and flow of this two-way exodus. They looked on, quietly confident in their ability to outlive the crazy, motorized species heading lemming-like to some hopefully not so distant brink.

Ellora, Aurangabad and Ajanta have magnificent cave-temples, Hindu, Bhuddist and Jain. In Ellora we met John and Amelia, an interesting American/Spanish couple who took us in their car on a day-trip to Ajanta. We later supped whisky and smoked cigars to celebrate Johns birthday. He was here researching his book on, if I have it right, Art Deco influences in modern Indian vernacular architecture.
Further North in Mandu we met another Volke, German this time, with a good sense of humour, and spent some fun times on this beautiful Plateau. Amoungst the well preserved and restored Afgan mosques and caravan-serais which are scattered about this boabab plain, we met a couple of French cyclists who had also pedaled their way from home.
One evening three tough, adventurous-looking and unshaven, pierced and tanned western motorbikers pulled up to the village eatery.They regailed us with daring tales of 200km days on rough roads as they stepped down from their Enfields. They had no idea that four of the five ordinary looking, clean shirted mortals with whom they spoke had cycled over 10,000kms from Europe. Jean-Mark and Marie were to polite to suggest they might know something about Indian roads but the be-engined trio spotted our bikes and the truth came out. (Or did I just tell them?). The Bikers were a decent bunch and it was nice talking to them. I was smugly pleased though, to notice less swagger in their stride as they mounted up and rode off to the posh resteraunt on the edge of town.

In Mandu our Media career continued. Beginning in Turkey we have now conducted five interviews for local papers. (A local paper in India selling more copies than the 'Sun'). It is not easy to get any real facts accross owing to language barriers. Even with an interpreter things get twisted: Question; 'And how do you find India Mr Franklin', Answer; 'Bloody noisy'. Translation from Hindi paper by man on street next morning; 'Mr Franklin advises a way of peacefulness and 'Shanti' for the Indian nation'.
The translator, our landlord and ex-Major was a fine and diplomatic fellow. I liked him for his respect of different religions, of traditions and of whichever gods creatures. An ant problem was dealt with by giving them flour. The idea is that when they find a large source of food they up and move their colony. The fact that the dogs all came to eat the flour, didn't bother him overly and seemed to be all part of the same acceptance of the way things are. What did annoy him though was singing coming from the Jain temple at dusk. Apparently the modern Jains had forgotten that this was an important time for birdsong and that our feathered freinds should not be disturbed. Though this same laises-faire attitude might have been responsible for the slackly run and grubby guest-house, I choose to blame the drink-problem. Leave the live-and-let-live guys alone I say!

We enjoyed being local celebrities for a day, with people stopping us and showing us our photo in the paper. They seemed to think it was a good article. It was back to being normal unusual people again though on the morrow.

One night we came to a town that was just a glorified bus stand. No lodging. We had passed a sign just out of town pointing to a "Heritage Village" and a fort. We arrived through the gates to a peeling-white painted old building and were shown to the only really clean room we had seen in India. 650 rupees was the sum asked and although twice as much as we were used to paying I thought a little luxury would do us no harm. Anja declined the first shower so I took it and then the staff came to collect the fee. It turned out they had got hundreds mixed up with thousands even though I had drawn the figures in the dust. A simple mistake, they were nice guys but we were left in the awkward position of coughing up over a hundred Euros or packing up and heading off into the dusk. I rememdered the words to an old song: "Don't leave me alone in the twilight, 'cause twilight is the loneliest time of day", as we cycled back down the road looking for somewhere to camp. Wildcamping in this part of India is not easy. There are people everywhere and they would pay less attention to a landed spaceship than to two Ferengi cyclists and a tent if they discovered us. They did not and we spent a pleasant night by an old well listening to the varied sounds of an Indian night in the fields.
We woke in good spirits the next morning and were watched from the well rim by four little-owls as we packed up camp. We will do this again, both being bored of the hotel game.

Ujjain has not impressed me much but maybe I am longing too much for the mountains. Winter or not, Nepal should be pretty.

Oh yeah, Pop, as you can see we discovered the original spaghetti tree !!!

Von Hampi nach Bijapur

Und wieder eine neue Konfektionsgroesse

Vorbei die herrlichen Faulenzertouristentage in Hampi (noch mal zusammenfassend: das Tolle an Hampi ist: es ist ein funktionierendes, indisches Dorf, in dem man den Kindern frueh beim Zaehne putzen, den Kuehen beim Muelleimer ausleeren, den Frauen beim... auf diie Strasse malen usw. usw. zuschauen kann, und der Tourist, der sein Lassi in entspannter Luemmellage konsumieren will, sein Buch in ein Neues umtauschen moechte und auf Toilettenpapier nicht verzichten kann, der Zimtschnecken vom "deutschen" Baecker zum Fruehstueck mag (auf der anderen Flusseite gibt es einen "franzoesischen" Baecker ?!!!!) und dazu auch noch einen grossen Milchkaffe will, hat hier seinen Platz gefunden. Und das alles in herrlicher Landschaft und mit einer kaum zu ueberschauenden Anzahl an Sehenswuerdigkeiten). Nach 10 Tagen koennen wir uns von der Idylle losreissen und radeln Richtung Badami. Die Strasse ist anfangs so schlecht, Slalomfahren um knietiefe Schlagloecher. Eigentlich faehrt man wie auf kleinen, schiefen und krummen Asphaltbruecklein, die uebers Erdreich gelegt sind. Doch sobald wir die grosse Strasse verlassen wird es wunderbar glatt und auch noch ganz schoen links und rechts von der Strasse. Ja und die Menschen winken auch und laecheln uns zu. Was fuer ein schoener Ausklang fuer unseren ersten Radeltag nach langer Pause. Am nachsten Tag sind es gerade noch 60 km bis Badami, doch selbst die schaffe ich nur mit Ach und Krach, eine Magen- ud Darmkrise mit extremen Schwaecheanfaellen wird mich die naechsten Tage meistens im Hotel verbringen lassen.
Aber wir machen einen tollen Ausflug mit Tucktuck (unser erstes auf dieser Reise) und unserem neuen Freund Volker aus Berlin nach Pattadakal und genug Kraft fuer die vier Tempelhoehlen in Badami kann ich auch noch aufbringen. Nach diesen vielen Stunden im Hotel, kann ich jetzt jede aktuelle indische Werbung mitsingen und mitspielen.

Incredible India oder Wie immer
Wieder 60 gequaelte km Richtung Bijapur. Mehr ist bei mir nicht drin. Und da steht dieses grosse Hotel am Strassenrand und wir checken ein. Teuer und verdreckt, schade, selbst das Laken muessen wir selbst wechseln. Aber der Zimmerservice bringt gewuenschtes Essen und kaltes Bier noch vor Sechs. Prima. Wir sitzen auf dem Balkon und geniessen die Aussicht: Schweinepaar kopuliert auf Muellplatz, die anderen Familienangehoerigen suhlen sich im Rinnsal, Hunde suchen nach Essbarem. Aber die Landschaft ist schoen. Was sind das eingentlich fuer Staebchen auf den Fliesen, ach ja, Rattenscheisse, so lange es nur auf dem Balkon ist.... Mir graust es etwas, habe schon Neachte mit Mausen im Zimmer verbracht, lassen einen nicht schlafen die Biester.
Wir sitzen auf dem Bett und spielen die indische Werbung mit... hat sich da nicht was bewegt? Das sitzt sie, auf dem Spiegel und schon ist sie wieder verschwunden. Aha, die Ratte wohnt hinterm Siegel. Nach 20 Minuten springt sie ploetzlich aufs Bett und rast rueber auf die andre Seite (10 cm an Toms Kopf vorbei) und versteckt sich irgendwo hinterm Sessel. Nein, ich moechte sie auf keinen Fall dort suchen. Wir akzeptieren den anderen Bewohner. Mehrere Muecken, Nachtfalter, stareunende Kaeffer und Kakerlaken haben sich auch schon eingefunden. Nur meine Freunde die Geckos zeigen sich heute nicht. Ok, wir stellen das Innenzelt aufs Bett. Die richtige Entscheidung, denn Ratte zeigt sich nicht schuechtern und wuselt nachts auf dem Bett rum. Auf meiner Seite! Tom schnarcht.

Am Morgen:
Ich weiss, es ist zwecklos.
Aber vielleicht wissen ja die Hotelangestellten nichts von dem Zimmerbewohner in 105 (wenn keiner putzt findet auch niemand Spuren, ich weiss, ich bin gemein).
Ich muss es sagen!
Ich: Wissen Sie dass im Zimmer eine Ratte wohnt?
Hotelangestellter verzieht Gesicht zum Laecheln und wiegt leicht den Kopft. Heisst das nun ja oder nein oder was.
Ich: Sie springt nachts aufs Bett....
Hotellangestellter laechelt wieder, ich meine eine klitzekleine Spur von Schuldbewusstsein zu erkennen: er weiss es also (ich wusste dass es es weiss).
Ich: Vielleicht sollten Sie etwas tun.
Hotelangestellter laechelt immer noch und frischt sein Laecheln noch etwas auf.
Ich laechle auch und gehe ins Zimmer 105 zurueck.
Naja, macht ja nichts.