A Short Jolly round South India

The Freaks Come Out at Night, and in Arambol, there are lots of them, dancing on stilts, Hula Hooping, juggling, blowing bubbles, drumming, meditating, strumming.

A long toot meant , budge over , and the rule was the bigger you were, the more rights you had, so scooters got out of the way of bigger bikes, who got out of the way of cars, who got out of the way of busses. The exception to this rule seemed to be trucks.
They would either be wollowing up hills in 1st gear, belching black smoke behind them, or thundering down tiny lanes with no ability to stop in less than about half a mile!
And pededtrians, who strolled along the road as if it were their own.We said our goodbyes over a cup of Raj’s exclent coffee and loaded up the bikes.

Leaving Palolem really was harder than we thought. The street food wasn’t done with us, and I spent most of the night running to the toilet to puke or poop. The water was turned off , so I had to be inventive with where and how to deal with the waste my body was expelling.Our emotions ran high as we dismounted at the taxi rank in Palolem..We were mobbed by touts , ofering beach huts, but we shook them off and made our way onto the beach, headed towards the Banyon Tree. We knew ecactly where we wanted to stay.

I had one close call when a cow walked in front of the Tuk Tuk I was passing, and my heart missed a beat when Phoebe rounded a corner in front of me into the path of a bus coming down the mountain on the wrong side of the road. We bade farewell to the beach and rode out of Palolem. We took the ‘highway’ to Chaudi and headed south towards Gokharna. We’d done this road before, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

We talked about Indian driving-the anarchic, chaotic system adopted by road users.
Basically, the bigger you are, the more rights you have.
Pedestrians were at the bottom of the ladder.and were forced to run for their lives on a regular basis. Cyclists, were only a fraction above as self powered lowly vehicles, easily crushed under the wheels of uncaring buses and trucks.

The goats headless body lay on the floor, kicking wildly in its death throws , with the severed head laying on the ground, its nostrils still expanding with its last, useless breath . The crowd cheered. I looked over at Phoebe, who, even beneath her tanned and road-dirty face had turned pale.

“Why don’t you come to my Estate?” asked Avin, “Its smaller than this, but I would love to show you around, please, be my guest’.

Leaving Coffe Land
We woke early on Supramania’s birthday. The king of the snakes was a revered local deity, and Avin said we should go with him. After a hearty Karnatakan breakfast we bundled into Avin’s Jeep and drove,a gain at breakneck speed, to the temple.

We left the city, riding, southwards , the roads getting quieter and quieter with each kilometre as we ran from the city southwards towards Bandipur Forest.

The road led us through lush , green paddy fields, we slowed for the killer speed humps that marked the start of small rural villages, where we were smiled at and waved to by children at play, women at work, and men sipping Chai at the roadside. The sun was relentless, but the air was fresh and cool.

We took out our road map, and Juz set about the task of highlighting a route for us, taking us along a road recently named No 1 in the Top 7 Riding Roads of the World, from Coorg to MunnarWe took out our road map, and Juz set about the task of highlighting a route for us, taking us along a road recently named No 1 in the Top 7 Riding Roads of the World, from Coorg to Munnar.

We gassed up on the outskirts of town and headed out of Mudumalai towards the mountains to the East, into the rising sun. After a quick photo session under the Welcome to Mudumalai Tiger Reserve sign, we started along the part paved, part crater sized-potholed road and began to climb. Juz poined to the sign the read hairpin Curve 1 of 34.

We’d heard about the road to Munnar, one of the Riding Wonders of the World, and truly, the ride was spectacular. We rode through the aptly names Silent Valley, the silence only broken by the mighty roar from Phoebe’s Electra, the mule’s pipe was getting louder and louder every day, and we thundered through the valley, waking sleeping villagers from their mid afternoon siestas , scaring dogs, and causing birds to flee from the trees.

We ate together in the town, most menus were printed in broken English and Hebrew. We loved the spelling errors and mis-translations. So far on the menus we have studied since Arambol, we’d seen such delights as Potato Lesbians, Chicken Person’s Nose, Banana Filters, Hashish Browns, and Fresh Jews, available in Spineapple,Orrange, Greatfruit, and Caner, finished off with Cock Flavoured Ice Cream.Munnar had once been the Raj’s own hillstation, but now it was more a stop off for Israelis, touring Indians, trekkers, backpackers and bikers.