Kate's Cycling Curiosity

The missile in Kerala state.

On leaving India I really felt like I had travelled. India has an array of worldly travellers. It’s no place for the first time backpacker. I saw travellers who pick up languages where others pick up infectious diseases. I've met travellers who are so physically sturdy they could drink a shoebox of water from a Kolkata gutter and never get sick.

India has taught me a lot. I have now learned the art of how to arrange my face into that blank expression of competent invisibility that is so useful when travelling in dangerous threatening places. It’s that super relaxed totally in charge expression that makes you look like you belong there anywhere, everywhere, even in a riot in kathmandu! I also have proudly mastered the infuriating (when on the receiving side) puppet-like wobble mixture of a head shake and a nod that can mean anything and nothing. When exhausted and in search of a room I know better now than to feebly enter reception with rosy cheeks and a face of desperation that says “Rip me off I’m willing to pay anything for a horizontal surface”. I’m more tactful than that now, I opt for a sugar kick of sugar and a drop of “chai”. No that’s not a typo there is more sugar than tea in the tea here. When my cheeks are a little more subdued I then tackle searching for a room with enthusiasm in an attempt to work off the sugar hit.

’ve learned that Indians never queue. I’ve learned that there is not a single rubbish bin in India and toilets are almost equally as scarce. I’ve learned always to ask for directions 5 times and take the average. I’ve learned only to ask for KM distances from someone actually riding a bike. A pot belly hotel owner hasn’t a notion of Km's or terrain. Never complicate the situation by asking for a town further than the next one. In rural villages few people have left their own village so you may as well ask for directions to Paris as a city more than 30km away. I’ve learned if the word “only” is in the price then I’m being ripped off. I know that if I’m told a hotel is closed it is not and they are just looking to send me to their friends hotel. I know all too well from experience the words “Fancy, Deluxe, High class, Quality, Grande” in the name of a hotel means they are exactly the opposite. Sadly it takes more than words to make a good hotel!

The land of spices.

The advantage of the coastal route.

I’ve also learnt something about myself. This is after all a country of spiritual enlightenment, a place where westerners flock to for ashrams, months in yoga and meditation retreats in search of their inner self…or something to that effect. I’ve learnt that although I am largely a passive person and of the non violent persuasion I have ironically uncovered a more aggressive streak in the land of Ghandi. In total I have slapped 7 men for staring at me up and down like they are buying a leg of lamb (or dahl if he’s vegetarian). 3 men in Tamil Nadu are now wearing Lassis (yogurt drink) as it happened to be my beverage at the time and 4 men on motorbikes got a kick as they stuck to me like a magnet while cycling. In my defence the last one is highly dangerous and they were given a warning which fell on deaf ears and the others were clear winning cases of sexual harassment back home. So I have a clear conscience.

I’m leaving India a bit worse for wear. Thanks to the pollution my skin is leathery, as dry as a stringy bark and clogged with black dirt. Although when looking to rectify the situation I was told it was "butiful white and fair" I just can’t seem to get rid of my cold which has been clinging to me like the sleazy men from Tamil Nadu. However I know solace awaits me in the tourist haven of Thailand, Normally I’m sceptical of the trappings that come with tourism and feel it forsakes the authenticity of real culture. However on this occasion I can’t wait to be catapulted from the harsh almost post war zone of downtrodden Kolkata to the gleaming bright lights of Bangkok boasting 7/11 stores and massage parlours in place burning rubbish heaps in India.

When all is said and done I will miss "Incredible India" very much because it is as advetised, incredible.

The Deirdre Barlow of India.

Mallapuram character.

From Kanykumari I headed inland to catch Tamil Nadu’s highlights of Madurai and Trichy. Madurai can boast a melee of temples and eight millennia of history. Present day Madurai owes its town planning to the Nayakas who formed the streets in the shape of a lotus flower with the famous Sri Minakshi temple at the centre. The architecture of its temples are typical of those seen throughout Tamil Nadu state and help but remind me of Disneyland. The outrageously baroque temples, with their coloured gourpas are a concoction of gods and demon statues boldly representing Hindu Mythology. To the western eye this may seem a touch garish or edging on kitsch but the Indians always love the kitsch factor and marvel at its greatness in an estimated 10,000 visitors a day. No wonder I ended in a flop house again. As with all tourist touts you are subject to the usual touts in the form of rickshaw wallahs, tailors and guides to name a few. There was no escaping a guide in Madurai so I thought it better to kill one mosquito than spend my day swatting away the rest. Prajab was a modern day Dellboy Trotter who had vigour and an air of confidence about him that sadly wasn’t backed up by any knowledge. An 11 year olds perception of history differs somewhat from mine it seems. Lesson learned.

Madurai Temple...Kitsch!

Christmas eve was spent doing my longest stretch to date at 140km in one day…there was no religious meaning behind this, there was simply no town of note between the two cities. Trichy proved to be a great spot to celebrate Christmas as there was a festival to a Hindu god on at the time and everyone was in party mood. The temples were used as playgrounds with children playing, families picnicking and men dozing. The Hindus are so at ease with there religion as it is an integral part of their daily life, there seems no need for them to get dressed up and put on a stern face in front of their god.

I was scoping out the restaurants in town all morning in an attempt to find something a little bit special for the day in question. My dilemma was quickly solved however when I was invited to join the pilgrims in a temple for a communal dining experience where I was once again required to sit in the lotus position which I can only do badly even with great effort. Then all 150 of us were served at rapid speed on our bananna leaf plate. It was traditional fare of rice, curry and an assortment of accompaniments of curd and vegetables. All washed down with a serving of sweet rice. It’s a far cry from stuffed turkey with all the trimmings but the atmosphere made up for the lack of culinary adventure.

Flower market, Madurai.

Pondicherry was a French enclave until it was handed over to India in 1954. Over 50 years of Indianisation have left it hard to trace its French roots and my dreams of dining on croissants and baguettes over a latte were exactly that, dreams. There was undeniably an air of sophistication of the town, coupled with the party atmosphere along the promenade made for a very enjoyable stay. Accommodation once more was booked out everywhere and I ended up paying to sleep in the large closed courtyard of one hotel together with half the staff and one other guest. Normally sleeping with male company around is utterly out of the question in India but for some reason sleaziness was forsaken for good manners in Pondicherry and I found it a very welcomed change. Next morning I was hoping to negotiate “tosanjam” for breakfast as it was quite a touristic town but everywhere was shut for some reason. My taste buds are a bit lethargic in the morning for curry and as I near the end of my stay in India it seems my aptitude for change in that regard is poor! I settled once more for “Idlis” a bland steamed rice dumpling typical in the south, with my only option being starvation. I did however decline on the curry sauce much to their bemusement. Breakfast wasn’t a total washout as I passed “Le Café” on my way out of town. It was there that I had my first real interpretation of coffee in a long time. If that wasn’t enough it was served on a table with a checked tablecloth and sophisticated napkins and saucer thrown in. You have to go through India the hard way to appreciate the finer things in life!

Chennai previously known as Madras was to be the end of my cycling journey in India. I had been nursing a cough since Madurai and the dusty roads were doing an excellent job at irritating it. Chennai has no real tourist attractions to note and I was quite relieved not to have a sightseeing itinerary to feel guilty about. My main business was to organize a train ticket for Kolkata where I was to fly out from to India. Initially I was to cycle there from Delhi but my change of route led me south. I had intended to change my flight so I could fly from Chennai instead but a miscommunication form Airasia left me taking the 30hr train journey to Kolkata on New Years Eve. I had hopped to spend it with my host Shiva in Chennai but instead it was spend with a lively family who I shared the train compartment with. I toasted the new year in with a cup of “chai” . It wasn’t quite the glass of champagne I’ve come to expect at new Years but there was certainly a kick in the sugar hit!

Riding high on the top of a truck...seatbelts on!

Train journeys in India are a spectacle of Indian life in themselves. The street vendors, beggars and musicians provide the journeys entertainment. There is absolutely no need to leave your bed as all service are brought to you…whether you want them or not. The only exception is the toilet which one tries to avoid unless it’s absolutely necessary! The background music being played is an energetic mix of “Miloooooo, Chhaaaaaiiieee, carfeeeeeee, parattttthha, somossaaaaa, omeeeeelllllettttte” On one occasion a particularly well dressed lady came onboard begging. I was a little sceptical as to why she was so well dressed yet begging. The gentleman beside me gave her a few rupees so I asked him why she was begging. “Because she is impooatant” So I asked him why she was important. He replied “She is she is impooatant” Still not grasping the situation I opted for repetition and asked “But why is she important” Then the penny dropped. She was impotent. Oooops.

On arriving in Goa I new immediately I had made the right decision. Women faired far better down there. The south is a special concoction of communism, Christianity and a questioning of matriarchal traditions. The grotty state owned hotels in the north with over manned lethargic male staff gave way to friendly family run hotels who knew of the benefits of disinfectant and bleach.

Goa in itself is nothing to write home about and the locals say I arrived a good 20 years too late. Previously before it’s “liberation” it was a clean and efficient state but sadly the influx of Indians looking for work has lead to downturn in quality management. The bad news however was that although I survived the 30 hour train journey unscathed my bike was nowhere to be seen. A melee of phonecalls were made and apparently my bike was on it’s way to Kanykumari, the southern most point of India where I was headed later…but by bike. I was told I would have to wait 3 days for the return of the “missile” so I decided to make the best of a bad situation and hit the beach. I’m all for the “freedom” of Goa and certainly pleased to hear “Cole beer, cole beer” for sale after the dry north. You won’t find a cabernet sauvignon here but it’s a start!. However I decided to leave the throngs Israeli ravers and amphetamine junkies behind in favour of a more tasteful beach in the south called Benaulim. I secured a lovely room with a balcony overlooking the sea in a very friendly guesthouse. It was undoubtedly the cleanest room I’ve had to date in India (well the whole trip actually) with my only complaint being that the freshly painted door sometimes jammed with latest lick of paint on the hinges. Certainly a complaint I never uttered in the north. The lady owner was eager to improve her English and was constantly inviting me for feni, a local spirit distilled from coconut and cashew nuts, at the most appropriate hours. If there was ever a petrol crisis in Benaulim I’m pretty sure they could substitute feni for it…foul!

Kerala actually means "land of coconuts"....you can see why!

After collecting my bike I cruised south for a most enjoyable ride stopping in small costal towns along the way. In search of some shade in the whopping 36 deg. My religious streak struck as I went to investigate a cathedral. After all the temples and monasteries I’ve visited these past months it was a welcomed change to see a Christian church. However inside it looked like they painters were coming to do the ceiling as there wasn’t a pew in sight. I later learned that the locals follow the syriac order of service as opposed to the western type of Christianity. So it’s palms up here for worshipping. The local bushy bearded priest was very happy to see real live tourist and kidnapped me in for tea as I was aware it was getting late and I was nowhere near a town big enough for a hotel. He explained to me that he receives a lot of Hindu converts who are trying to escape the restrictions and oppression of the caste system.

I'm not the only one. Polley and Mikey on their world tour from England.

I met my first cyclists Polly and Mikey from England on the road to Gokarna but they were going in the opposite direction. They are also on a world tour and you can view there very up to date journal on www.travelpod.com. It’s always pleasant to meet someone else struggling in the blistering heat to remind you that you are the only nutcase on the road. They confirmed my suspicions that my map was absolute rubbish and my destination for the day was not 15km away but in fact 65km. Plan B was then adopted as I wheeled into Karvar a busy costal market town whose main bragging rights is their sizeable train station. With the train station of little interest to the cyclist, after a swift check in I pedalled over to the beach for a quick dip before the sun went down. As I mentioned this towns only redeeming feature is it’s train station so it falls short on luring in the flocking tourists. I noticed a large group of what I thought to be white people swimming together in the distance so I thought I’d go a little away from the crown for a quick dip. After 5 mins of being in the water I noticed I had attracted a larger crowd than usual. Judging by the check-in register in the hotel I was the only tourist to frequent the hotel that year and by the crowd I would guess it’s not that I chose the wrong hotel. I now had the difficult task of getting out of the sea discreetly …..this was no easy task and one I did not complete particularly successfully. I marched past the on looking mob, bike in tow, bikini dripping through my clothes and with a distant glaze on my face that I developed in India that says “Don’t annoy me can’t you see I’m on a mission” . Moments later I passed what I had presumed earlier were a group of tourists but found out that they were in fact a group of schoolchildren in white shirts. For modesty they went swimming in their uniforms and then dripping went they were marched back on the bus by their teacher. I knew I should have worn my glasses!

Gokarna was the next stop and it offered a pleasant mix of a working Indian town with pilgrimage day drippers. On top of this it had some tourists there who have escaped from the madness of Goa and I have quickly learned that a light tourist element is needed to avoid harassment. Karvar is a case in point.

The diversity of different religions existing side by side in Kerala is always something that amazed. Something very Ghandi about the whole situation. Throughout my route I passed Mosques, protestant churches, Salvation army, Syrain orthodox, Roman Catholic, Seventh day Adventists, Methodist church, naturally Hindu temples and no doubt some others I let slip through my shrewd eye. There is however one serious drawback to all this religious fervour and this lesson sadly comes from experience. I checked into a decent hotel and was enjoying an evening nap with the distant sound of Hindu devotional music in the background, I had seen many of these giant loud speakers on display thoughout the villages I passed through during the day but naively thought their deafening sound would be turned off at night . After all there is an unwritten curfew of 10pm in these religious towns. Sadly 10mins into my slumber I was abruptly awoken by new devotional music for a speaker no less than 1 metre from my window. No room no longer felt like a bargain. It was so loud the vibrations were hurting my stomach as I lay in bed. No 10pm curfew for the irritating music as it played to empty streets until 2 am, I was finally able to doze in peace when up starts the temples. The chanting I had grown used to from my time in Tibet but the drumming and bell clanking was really testing a new level of patience. As I attempted to push my ear plugs even deeper into my skull the Mosques came into action. The amplified muezzin joined into the orchestra and the local church bells calling the devoted to mass played an uncomplimentary backing track. How anyone catches a wink of sleep in Trivandrum is beyond me. The only tourist who could possibly enjoy this place is an insomniac. From then on when inspecting a hotel or “tourist home” as they are known down south, I was less concerned about the state of the bathroom and more interested in scoping out any possible speakers hiding in the trees outside my window.

New friends in Ernakulum.

One thing I noticed during my time in Kerala is the amount of shops and hotels that had Saudi Arabian names. I once stayed in the “Dubai hotel” and ate in the “Kuwait non-veg Restaurant”. After much pinning to get an answer I finally learned that Kerala is the most educated of the Indian states with a literacy rate of 97%. So the well educated muslims head off to the Gulf states and work until they have enough money saved to return and set up a business. This was also the explanation for some questionable mock Arabian architectural gems that occasionally dotted the landscape.

Riding to the southern moist point of India, Kanykumari you are met with a suitably heroic welcome. To the east you have the impressive Swami Vivekananda’s rock and to the west you have the confluence of the seas to the south. As with all pilgrimage towns during peak pilgrimage season (the exact time I’m in the south ..grrr) finding accommodation is no easy feat. Grasping at straws after being turned away from 5 hotels already I approached the Ashram which is supposedly welcoming to all…but not to me. Moments later a devotee pilgrim who had more religious paraphernalia than I have freckles was given a room. I think the cyclists helmet took way my religious charm. The joy of having a bike when searching for accommodation means that you can move swiftly from one hotel to the next at ease and with pace. Finally I did manage to find a room on keeping with the pilgrimage feel. Little more than a flophouse it was reminiscent of the lodging in rural Nepal. Plank of wood for a bed, with a brown patterned sheet that excellently complements the embedded dirt and serves to hide the fact that there is no mattress underneath. Jumping on a wooden bed with no mattress is a mistake you only make once!

As I crossed the border from Nepal to India I was a little apprehensive. Many travellers in Nepal are refugee tourists escaping from the overwhelming assault on their senses which India provides. My first problem arose when I couldn't actually exit Nepal as the immigration office was nowhere to be found. I crossed the dirt track excuse of a road that is no-mans land between Nepal and India and was told on the Indian side that I needed to return to Nepal to get my exit stamp. Turns out children had nicked the immigration sign to use for firewood and being the only tourist among the traders going to India it was quite the treasure hunt to find the office as no one knew where it was. When I did eventually find it they said they had seen me cycling by earlier and knew I would be back...after all the shouting at I have endured on my bike over the past few weeks they really picked an opportune time to be silent!

Fatephur Sikri.

India is like a toughening up school for travellers. You constantly need to be alert for the next scam and my first minute on Indian soil provided me with my first. There was some huffing and puffing over my Indian visa but he couldn't come up with anything to screw me on over that. Next thing he pipes up "Documents for your cycle". I explained that it is a bicycle “cycle” not a motorbike. Still he wanted my papers. The first lesson you learn in India is that there are no rules so you just have to play them at their own game. I decided to tell him the bike was from Ireland like I did previously with success on the Nepalese border. I then explained that I had already crossed the Tibetan and Nepalese border with it and that I wanted to see a written rule that I needed to pay tax on it. There was a feeble attempt made to search in a drawer, knowing that he had lost but not before he started the shouting in Hindu at me with little effect. I replied in a stern voice that I now required my passport and wished them a good day. Welcome to India….the cheeky git!

Seven different types of bananna on offer.

When people think of cycling in India the first worry that comes to mind is the traffic. The roads directly after the Banbassa border were so bad that the only traffic I had to contend with for the first few KM’s were ox and carts. When I reached the town of Banbassa I had imagined it to be a buzzing metropolitan city judging by the size of the dot on my map. After a quick spin through the ‘blink and you miss it’ village I realised I was very much mistaken and it was like every other border town...a place you want to get out of quick! On crossing the border I eventually got reception on my phone again and with that a few panic messages and missed calls as to my whereabouts from my parents. An internet cafe was out of the question but the kind young man at the tourist who was quite happy with the interruption from twiddling his thumbs installed me on his work computer while he fetched me some tea. This is India a country of contradictions. On one side you have people who would steal the shirt off your back if they could and on the other side you have pure selfless generosity!

With little more than a bus station and a few food huts to offer in the town, the purchase of a decent road map was obviously out of the question. My map of Nepal included a corner of India so I thought if I pressed on in ignorance a petrol station along the way would have a map. I never did find a map as I wheeled into the outskirts of Delhi 2 days later without a notion of the towns I went through. The route however was not my major fear, the suicidal traffic element outweighed that. After the peace of Western Nepal where the only menaces on the road were the children and their rattling bicycles, I suddenly had to battle with the thick black fumes that were being belched out from the trucks. On the first day the gust of one particular truck was so strong that I found myself in the ditch after it had left me chewing dust. I reminded myself that “this is India” and the next day I also say a rickshaw wallah pulling himself out of the ditch. Unfortunately this poor victim was thrown into one of the many rubbish collection points on the side of the road. As he pulled banana skins and other unthinkable decomposing matter off his clothes I counted myself lucky that I only had a few briars to pluck off my t-shirt. I quickly learned the Indians fascination with initials, with the motorways known as “NH 2” The road signs were also particularly amusing with an element of kitsch thrown in “Do not zoom, To your doom.” “Better called Mr. Late than the Late Mr.”, “More zoom, more boom”. On my first day I cycled the NH 2, checked into an AC room (air-con) and dined in a N.Veg (non-vegetarian) restaurant.

Job to do...

Luckily in Delhi I was going to be staying with an old college friend and his family. My plan of attack for entering Delhi was to arrive very early in the morning. With no tears in my eyes I left my grotty motel at 4.30am to make the last 30km before the city woke up. As I approached what I believed to be city I saw a bus station and thought I could get some directions from there. It was still dark as I entered the crowded bus station. It reminded me of a stage setting as I couldn't believe what I was seeing was real. I believe this is what they call culture shock! People lay on the broken ground in between burning rubbish heaps and puddles of foul smelling substances, all the while countless rats just jumped over their slumbering bodies. The people who stood around were joking and laughing making me question was I hallucinating the rats. I overcame my fear of mice in China so I guess I will have to get over my fear of rats in India!

After asking the Rickshaw wallahs for directions I was getting ridiculous and non concurring answers of up to 50km to scare me into taking a rickshaw with my bike (not sure of the logistics of that operation) but being stubborn as a mule I just rode off in ignorance once more until I spotted the metro line overhead. Bingo! I just followed the metro line to the stop nearest my friends house the better part of 20km away and then a kind taxi man gave me an escort to the house.(although I didn’t realise it was an escort at the time and thought he was stalking me) Another example of kind Indian generosity. That said there was no way my bike would have squeezed into his Suzuki Alto so I really wasn't a potential customer!

Taj Mahal.

The next day my friend Kanu's father took me for a tour of Delhi on his Vespa scooter in an attempt to convince me that a motorized vehicle would be a far better option for travelling around the world. The concept of backpacking hasn't quite hit India yet so the concept of cycling around the world left him seriously questioning my sanity. Sadly mid tour in the choice location of the deafening madness of the old bazaar, I came down with an almighty migraine and a vomiting spree to boot. The double whammy had me lying outstretched on the ground of a filthy side street acting like I was testing a new luxury mattress. Within moments the old faithful “Tiger balm” was produced. I’m sceptical of these alternative methods at the best of times and in particular when you’ve hit rock bottom. I’d rather put my money on a trusty paracetamol to offer some relief but to no avail the on looking crowd were convinced by the ever popular (but useless IMO) tiger balm.

Two hours later after I summoned all strength to stay on the back of the vespa we reached home and my resting place for the next days. After 2 days and no movement on my part apart from my bowels it was clear I had a bad case of the Delhi Belly. The weight of the sheet alone on my body was enough to cause me pain and in true hypochondriac form I had myself convinced I had malaria. A phonecall was then made to the Head Female doctor in Delhi, none other than the Prime Ministers wife. Seriously you can’t make this stuff up! The state I was in I would even have given the old herbs and spices doctor from Nepal a go again! What ensued was a cliff notes version of my life achievements and social standing not unlike a priests synopsis at a funeral but in the present tense “BSc Architecture,Ireland, MSc Architecture, Switzerland….lover of the fine arts and theatre. “ My love of the fine arts arose from a one sided conversation I had with Kanu’s father. In my almost unconscious state he piped up “You like art and theatre, yes?” I’m not adverse to the arts so I managed a concurring grunt. ”You like to paint, yes?” many a summer was spent creosoting the garden fence so another complying grunt followed. Little did I know he was building up a dignified image of myself which was later to be used as clearance to allow me to be seen by the highest caste Brahmen doctor. The casteless “untouchables” are lucky if a doctor will see them at all and true to their name they will never be touched by a doctor. Thankfully I past the test and spent the next 4 days on a drip in a private clinic whilst trying to evict the parasite that had taken up residency in my stomach.

Classic demonstration of Indian humor.

A little note on what is my understanding of the complex caste system. In its simplest form there were originally 4 ranks in the caste system. The cream of the crop are the Brahmins, or priestly caste. They are swiftly followed by the Kshatriyas or warriors. Next up we have the Vaishyas who are associated with agriculture and trade. At the bottom of the barrel we have the downtrodden Sudras who are the labourers. This system then developed into a spiders web of “juri” which identified specific trades within each caste. Sadly you are not judged by your aptitude when entering a caste you are simply born into it. What irritates me greatly about this system is that there is little chance for the ambitious spider to escape this web. If you’re born into a family of blacksmiths then a blacksmith you will be. Little use for career guidance here I guess!

Jealous onlookers of the "missile".

On the outskirts of Agra I saw an old beggar sprawled on the road with splashes of blood around his head which I didn’t have the stomach to investigate further. Moments later a bus came to a screeching halt and a very unhappy driver jumped of the bus and flung the presumably dead body (no attempt to check for a pulse) into the ditch. I stood dumbfounded as everyone else carried on as normal. There were 2 reasons for the driver to be a tetchy. Firstly it was not his castes job to remove dead bodies from the road and secondly he was now 5 minutes late. Sometimes I hate India. I witnessed countless examples such as this during my time in India. Whether it was the boulders that had fallen off a truck on a corner and were making the road a death trap for oncoming vehicles…so basically they would rather see a road accident instead of moving the rocks as it was not their castes job. When checking into a hotel you see the caste system at its greatest. The owner presumably Brahmin will take your money. Someone else’s job is to show you the room for inspection. An “untouchable” will then be sent for to wave a twig brush in a failed attempt at cleaning the bathroom. Next you will have a knock on the door and the “sheet putter on” will arrive on the seen. Lastly you will have the hangers on who have been adopted by the owner to do any tasks he commands but their time is mainly spend dreaming up of “services” to extort money out of foreigners. The most inventive of these remedial “services” was when I opened the door to a guy who marched into the centre of my room, sprayed air freshener like it was his treasured cologne and then demanded. 10 Rupees. An equally inventive yet more deceitful method is to demand “Basksheesh”. Basically this entails paying for a service twice. I had inspected one hotel room in Madurai and agreed on a price. On having paid I quickly realised there was no electricity yet I could here the latest episode of the local soap opera blaring in the next room. I went down to reception to investigate and was told “Backsheesh”. A simple oversight on my behalf to think that electrical power was included in the price of a room!

I left Delhi in the early hours of the morning just as I had come in. I passed the Rickshaw wallahs slowly waking up in the dreary fog as they lit fires from loose rubbish in an attempt to get there early morning “Chai” sugar hit. All around I could hear the constant smashing of earthen clay cups which you disregard on the ground after using so that there is no chance of a different castes lips touching the same cup. Well at least it creates a boom in the clay cup industry! Amongst the smashing I heard cries of “butiful cykel” “Hello sister” “Hello Auntie”. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t hear “Hello Grandma”.

Rather you than me.

I was a bit green on Indian culture when I crossed the border into India but thankfully a local “Dobbie Wallah” family in Agra enlightened me further. Basically I have come to the conclusion that almost everything in India relates back to religion. The eldest daughter in the family explained to me how she chose the colour of her Saris each day. Apparently if I understood her correctly every day has a special god you should honour and with that each god has a representing colour. Something my limited cyclists wardrobe could never stretch to. The eldest son was due to marry in a month and the father explained proudly that this is an arranged marriage but that they shall not be demanding a dowry. A common occurrence in India is “Bride burning” where a bride whose dowry is disappointing is burned by the husbands family. This is normally unsuccessfully disguised as a kitchen fire and no repercussions are to be had. It’s no wonder when I see arranged marriage ceremony’s of girls little more than 16 on the streets they often look more like funerals than celebrations. Once married the girl leaves her family and is at the mercy of her husbands family with whom they share the home with. When your family has given everything they own in the dowry to avoid the shame of an unmarried daughter there is nothing for the girl to fall back on. Women are a burden to their family in the north and seen as expensive luxuries until they become a mother.

After my brief stint in the north I had a renewed appreciation for being born in a country where women are respected. Women draw a raw deal throughout the country but in the north in particular. With a 40 % literacy rate to the mens 65% and unlike most other countries they actually have a lower life expectancy rate. My heart always went out to the child brides you would see along the motorways braking up rocks in their colourful saris. It seemed such inappropriate work for a woman to lug bags of rocks on their head all day and then return to their unwelcoming family and meet their husbands every need. On the street they always stood a respectful 4 steps behind their husbands with a zombie like expression of no hope on their face.

Due to a turn in the weather and an acceptance that the traffic was not going to thin out on the trunk road, I decided a better plan of action was to abandon my destination of Kolkata in the North East and head south. I would actually be cycling further starting in Goa and doing a loop along the coast to finish on Chennai so with ease of conscience I booked a train south to Goa. As I checked out of my hotel the next morning on my way to the train station I was left with one final reminder of the mentality in the north. I had been battling for days with the hotel owner that I rather enjoyed cycling by bicycle and that I could in fact afford the train fare if I so wished. As I was about to pedal away I noticed I had 2 flat tyres which were not there 10 minutes ago. I had yet to inform the owner that I was in fact going by train to Goa and in an attempt to stop me cycling he let the air out of my tyres. When I explained my train left in 30 minutes a deep expression of guilt came across his face

Flower market, Delhi.