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.
We woke early and sat outside our hotel watching the sun rise above the qurtet of falls. The coach that had turned up at the hotel just before midnight, its passengers’ voices echoing through the stone corridors of our once peaceful residence,was parked outside the entrance. The crew were busy preparing breakfast under the hotel’s porch. The men ate on the floor in a line in the shade of the coach while the women ate in the hotel dining room.

No sign of Superbad. We loaded our bags onto Frankie the mule, posed for photographs with the indian tourists and waved goodbye as we headed out of Jog Falls, back over the bridge across the top of the falls, pausing to photograph the amazing view,and out onto the highway. The sun on my left shoulder confirming I was was headed in the right direction, south.

We rode and rode, not stopping for lunch , our apetite was minimal, and there was too much to process on the road to think about our stomachs. Locals waved to us form the side of the road as we passed. I loved riding behind Phoebe, watching as they made double takes, snapping their heads back to check that what they had seen was real. Not only a Westerner, but a girl, riding a motorbike.

The road was amazing again, twisting and turning then opening into long straight stretches where we could twist our wrists and open our throttles.

I loved riding Priti, the black and white Classic. Its engine purred like a pussy cat, unlike Frankie, whose motor blatted out like a barking dog. But Phoebe loved the mule, we were still splitting the bikes on a daily basis, but we both had our favourites.

We pulled off the State highway, following another sandy track down to a lake we’d seen from the road. We bounced down the track to the water’s edge, kicked out our sidesatnds and got off our bikes, rubbing our numb bums.

We sat in the shade of a tree and took a moment to enjoy the quiet. We weren’t alone for long. As Phoebe rolled a cigarette, a local appeard from behind a clump of trees, his scythe in hand. He looked at us curiously, not speaking nor smiling, just staring. I smiled, ‘Hi’ I said. Nothing, just the stare.
“Namaste” chirped Phoebe, but still nothing. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked back in the direction form which he had appeared.

We sat by the lake, skimming stones and watching the Bison graze on the far side of the lake as a white cranes glided inches above water level.

Feeling refreshed, we rejoined the Highway, destination Mysore. We rode on, the kilometeres clicked over, the sun arced above us, our motors contentedly throbbing away beneath.

I gestured to Phoebe to pull over. I’d seen something on my right that I wanted to take a closer look at . Phoebe pulled off the road beside me.

I pointed to what I’d seen. There were crowds of locals, seemingly in a procession off to our right. We could hear music and cheering.
“Shall we go check it out?” I said to Phoebe, eager for my first taste of some local festivities.
“It might be a funeral” she replied
“Well I want to go go check it out anyway, fancy it?”
“Sure”

We U-turned and headed under the stone arch and into the village.
We pulled into the bustling temple area, vendors were everywhere, sellling Ice Cream, Coconuts, Cane juice, toys, jewellery and all sorts of colourful plastic tat.
As we dismounted, two men walked passed carrying a headless goat , still dripping with blood, on a wooden pole, another man walking behind carrying a scythe and the animal’s head. I looked at Phoebe and she looked back at me. She’d seen it too. We were both a bit bemused, but had been in India for long enough to not be easily shocked or surprised.

Children pointed at us and tugged at their mothers Sari’s as we passed. Some young men came over to us, “Welcome, welcome” they said, ‘Your country”
“England” we replied.
“Aaah, very good, welcome, come, come, please’
They motioned for us to follow them down the path, flanked by markets stalls to the Temple. A crowd formed around us and followed us down to the second temple. More goats were being led down to the temple, more of their headless kind being led in the opposite direction.

Everybody wanted their photos taken with us, even here , in this tiny villagen in the middle of nowhere, everyone, even the kids, had mobile phones. It made a change for us to be the subjects of the photos. We were led down to the back of the temple and took our shoes off. This was where the sacrifices were taking place.
“Are you sure you want to see this? “ I asked Phoebe, who nodded back at me.
We walked round to where a large crowd had formed in a circle. The goats were led in , one by one, by their owner. One man took the back legs while another held the hapless animal by the horns, as a third villager held his scythe above his head , and in one swoop, cut the sacrifiacials goats head clean off.

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.

We turned slowly and collected our shoes. More Goats were led down to the back of the temple, to their fate.

Another procession followed, led by drummers, where elders of the village led young men and women, dressed head to toe in leaves, and carrying ceramic pots of liquid on their heads.

We made our way back up the path to our bikes, followed by the children we had met on our way down, their numbers swelling as word spread that there were some weird looking folk at their Harvest Festival.

“Tattoo, Tattoo” said one of the youngsters, proudly showing us his new branding. He led us to the stall where the tattooist was marking these kids for life.

We bought a cane juice, posed for more photos, took a few more , then headed back to our bikes. Once on the saddle, we were surrounded. The village had all but forgotten about their festival, the arrival of these two road dirty westerners far more interesting, it would seem, than the beheading of a multitude of goats.

A throng had formed a circle around Phoebe, dozens of cameras held overhead , impeding her exit. I heard the bike roar into life and the crown made way for Phoebe to turn her bike around.

“Shall we blow this joint?” I suggested.We headed out of the village, Honking our horns and waving as we left.

We turned back on to the highway. Rode for a couple of minutes, then pulled over for another cigarette.

We were both elated and slightly revolted. These sort of off the track, impromptu encounters with the real locals was what we lived for on these trips, and we’d made some real memories here, but were left with a slightly sick feeling in our stomachs.

Back on the road, past more brightly coloured temples, overtaking Ox-drawn carts, and huge Tata trucks. Locals were busy at the side of the road, cutting, clearing, making hay bales and hearding cattle.

We came to an unexpected roundabout type junction, all the road signs written only in Kanada , leaving us cluelss as to where each of the four exits led.

Looking around for someone that might speak comprehensible English, I pulled the bike over, and asked a smartly dressed gentleman for the road to Hassan.
“Actually you can take any of these three roads, he said , pointing to his right, ‘the main highwat is faster, but longer and with much traffic and no scenes, the middle road is direct, but not so good, the thirst is a detour , a little longer, but you will pass the Dam, a very good road, I would suugest this is good for you’
We took his advice, thanled him and took the third road off the roandabout .
The road widened to a dula carriageway, empty in both dirctions. I pulled up next to Phoebe, who looked over at me with a glint in her eye. I raised my eyebrow and gunned my engine, signalling my intent to race. She dropped downa gear and the mule surged forwards, I followed suit, twisting my wrist as far back as the throttle would allow, the revs building as I began to drw even with her. I crouched down over my bars , and slowly edged in front of Phoebe as my speedo hit 100kms. I eased off the throttle and we rode together, side by side on the deserted highway, grinning wildly at each other.

We turned off, following the sign to the Dam, fortunately written this time in English, and follwed the part-tarmac, part sand road, for a few kilometres to the dam.

We rode along the bottom of the dam, and seeing another track seemingly leading to the top of the dam , we turned right to see where it led. I had visions of finding a service road along the top of the dam, but the track curved off in another direction. We followed the track to the top of a hill adjacent to the dam, to the its end, and were aforded a spectacular view of the filds and the lake below us.

I glanced at my watch. We still had over 200kms to cover before we reached Mysore. There was not enough time. A quick map check and we decided to make haste for Belur, the temple site on route to Mysore, and see if we could make it there by nightfall.

We rode straight through Chikmagalur, a signpost read “Welcome to the Land Of Coffee” Phoebe turned and beamed at me. The town was full of coffee roasteries, and the small as we rode through the dusty outpost was fantastic, rich with the arome of freshly roasted coffee. We passed c