20 years ago today – Day 334

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Friday, January 31st – Panaji to Velsao Beach, 17,155 km

It is a sunny morning with some broken cloud and a gusty wind coming in from the north-west. After another wonderful breakfast and Venite Hotel, we leave Panaji, heading west past the centre of town and turning south around the headland where we pass Miramar Beach. It's good to see it even if we won't be stopping. It is a long, wide beach with palm trees near the road in parts and some grassy parks in other places. Mostly its long, empty and inviting. When we do see people they are usually White Western hippy-types.

The road makes a sharp left at the end of the beach, heading east half a kilometre inland from the south shore of the headland. It leads us through the University of Goa grounds and then south-east to a ferry crossing over another branch of the Mandovi River. It is a small, old ferry used by pedestrians, scooters and bicycles mainly. The river is about a kilometre wide at this point. A solid line is palm covered banks awaits us on the far side.

We disembark on the far side and make our way back to a highway that crosses the river on a high bridge. We don't want to stay on the highway as it has no shoulder and steady truck traffic, so half a kilometre later we find a small side road that winds through a partially wooded valley and rural farmlands. It must be laundry day in one village we pass by as we see clothing spread over the grassy fields. With the wind bending the palms it looks as though the laundry is the carnage in the aftermath of a storm.


The side road climbs joins a larger road heading west that is following the top of a ridge. From the ridge there is take a service road that drops down to the sea and runs south behind the beach about half a kilometre from the shore. From the service road, dead end roads run down to the edge of the beach. One of these leads us to Velsao Beach, one of the first beaches we can access south of the ridge we had to cross. From Velsao the wide, smooth beach stretches south as far as the eye can see. This is the unspoiled part of Goa that Frank and I have been most interested in visiting.

The Velsao Beach Tavern is the only commercial building on this stretch of beach. It has a wonderful veranda with bamboo railings overlooking the beach. It is run my Fernando and Maria, an Indian couple with Portuguese names. They are very friendly, perhaps in part due to the lack of business. We are the only customers. We have been riding for 103 km today so we are ready so a refreshing mango lassi. Our plan is to cycle on down the road and take a room in the first available hotel, but Fernando talks us into staying here. They serve dinner at the tavern and there is a space where we can pitch Frank's tent behind the building. They will even let us use their bathroom for showers.

Frank wants to set up the tent while it is still light. The area for the tents is a pleasant, level dirt lit with patio lanterns around the edge. The perimeter of the yard is surrounded by a thicket of semi-tropical plants. It is very cozy, like a secret garden, but around the base of the perimeter or the yard are a series of nets. We ask Fernando what they are for. That’s to keep out the snakes, he replies, such as cobras and black mambas. What is it with me and snakes on this trip? I can’t seem to get away from them. I suppose we should stay indoors if we want to stay out of their way.

It is a lovely night and we sit on the patio sharing drinks with Fernando and Maria after our tent is set up. They tell us they have owned this place for three years since moving down from Panaji. It is not a very busy place, they admit, but they expect in time more development will come along. The beach is so lovely I can’t see how it wouldn’t attract development. Meanwhile, their place is paid off and life here is gentle and peaceful. It is warm enough to sit out in a short-sleeved shirt tonight, this last night of January. There is an almost full moon reflecting off the sea. The lights of the veranda light up the foam at the water’s edge. I can see white crabs chasing the waves and retreating as the next wave arrives. I could watch them for hours.


PHOTO 1: river ferry
PHOTO 2: river ferry
PHOTO 3: laundry day
PHOTO 4: Velsao Beach

20 years ago today – Day 333

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Thursday, January 30th – arrive in Panaji (Panjim), Goa

In spite of having to brace myself against the rough driving, I manage to curl up in a ball in a way that stops me from falling off the seat. The speed bumps on the highway disappear a few hours before we arrive in Goa and I manage to get a couple hours of sleep. So does Frank.

As soon as there is light in the sky, about an hour before we cross the Mandovi River into Panaji, the capital of Goa, I am awake again and taking in the scenery. But it isn’t until we disembark, load up the bikes and take in the warm sea air that I feel awake. The bus depot is right off the bridge at the eastern edge of town. Like most bus depots, it is inherently devoid of charm, as though the city found the only ugly place in town to put it. But like everything in Panaji, the depot is small and a couple hundred metres towards the centre of town it is quickly forgotten.

The first hotel, the Tourist Office & Home, is that close. It is the cheapest in town but it only offers dorm accommodation. Frank and I are willing to pay a little more to get a decent night’s sleep. We cross a short bridge over the Ourem River and we are in the town proper. Within another 100 m we are the Venite Hotel, the most highly recommended of the cheap hotels in town. It is a two-floor red building, quite unimpressive from the outside, but it has balconies with rod iron railings, a left over from Goa’s Portuguese era.

There will be rooms, the cheery hotel desk tells us, but none of them have been cleaned yet. Not surprising since it is barely 8 am. We are both hungry so we decide to have breakfast in the hotel restaurant, which is already half full. The residents are mostly Westerners and some of them look a little ragged, like they have been partying hard. The Australian couple, both long-haired, dressed in tie-dyed T-shirts, he in beach pants and she in a flowered skirt, are seated next to us. They are very chatty. Everything about Goa is “cool” they say, which doesn’t tell us much. The breakfast, with eggs and curried rice, is fantastic – certainly more than “cool”.

After breakfast, we sit in the lounge area on the second floor, which has a window overlooking the street. It has mismatched wooden chairs and tables instead of sofas. The walls are adorned with all kinds of graffiti, obviously encouraged by the management, who have left a box a crayons on the main table for that use. It’s definitely “cool”.

Our rooms are ready by 10. After my shower I feel refreshed. Frank joins me in a walk along the riverside promenade which leads to the main part of town half a kilometre away. Panaji, also called Panjim in some of the literature, is supposedly the smallest state capital in India, and Goa is the smallest state with just over a million people. It was owned by Portugal until 1961, when India invaded. It has retained a lot of its Portuguese charm with narrow, winding streets, old houses with overhanging balconies, white washed Catholic churches and numerous cafes and bars. Many of the streets and buildings still have Portuguese names. The town’s atmosphere is relaxed and permissive compared to what I have seen of India so far. I am quite swept up in its charm.

Frank is less so, though I put a lot of that down to his fatigue. He isn’t up to walking as much as I am so he leaves me after a few minutes to return to the Venite to take a nap. Before he leaves, he complains that there are too many hippies in town and that overall it is too Western. Personally, given that I am about to return home, I don’t mind that, though it is certainly nothing like Toronto. It might be compared to Key West though, which I thoroughly enjoyed visiting 10 years ago.



I too am tired by now. I stop at a street café for lunch and coffee and take in the gentle action around me for an hour. Clouds are moving in and a breeze is picking up. I return to the hotel. I have let Frank sleep undisturbed for two hours but now I need a nap. When I wake he has gone out. I find him reading in the lounge. As I am telling him about my walk other guests join us, including Marcia and Craig, the Aussies we met at breakfast.

They invite us to join them at the hotel restaurant for dinner. Frank would like to try one of the many other restaurants in town but they insist that this is the best, especially for the seafood which is caught fresh each day. We both like seafood so we agree to join them. It is a good choice too. I have the curried shrimp on coconut rice and every spoonful makes love to my mouth.

When dinner is over they lead us down to a pub in the Aroma Hotel in the centre of town. Craig is obviously stoned. He invites Frank and I out for a puff in the alley. Marcia isn’t into pot. I detect in her a mild irritation to his smoking. Perhaps Frank does too, for at the last moment he decides to stay with her. Craig stares at me with the indiscretion of a man who is stoned while I’m inhaling a puff. I am not into long haired men, but he has beautiful eyes, made more desirous by the pot. “Are you gay?” he suddenly asks me. “Yes, I suppose so,” I say, not wanting to be dishonest. “That’s cool” he responds. I am not sure if he wants me to say more, or if he is interested. He says nothing more until the joint is finished, and then suggests we should go back. For a while I am nervous that he will say something to Frank, expecting that he is gay too, but that doesn’t happen.

Craig invites us to go to them with to the beach after bar, but Frank wants to get a good night sleep because we will be leaving Panaji tomorrow morning. I could have gone with them but I know he is right. “Well come join us at Miramar Beach tomorrow,” Marcia suggests. Miramar is the closest beach to Panaji, and it is known for its Western hedonism, including some nudity. “We’re cycling out of town tomorrow,” Frank tells them. “Oh you have to go up north to Anjuna Beach,” both Craig and Marcia exclaim. They tell us it is a constant party. “We’ll look into it,” Frank tells them, but on the way back to the hotel he reconfirms that he wants to head south, as far form the partying hippie set as we can get.


PHOTO 1: crossing the Ourem River
PHOTO 2: the Venite Hotel
PHOTO 3: the lounge of the Venite Hotel
PHOTO 4: by the Panaji waterfront
PHOTO 5: colourful house in Panaji
PHOTO 6: street scene in Panaji
PHOTO 7: green house front
PHOTO 8: Our Lady of Immaculate Conception
PHOTO 9: back of the same church
PHOTO 10: Francis Xavier Church
PHOTO 11: another Panaji street scene
PHOTO 12: Portuguese architecture in Panaji

20 years ago today – Day 332

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Wednesday, January 29th – leaving Mumbai, 17,052 km

This is the day Frank and I will catch a bus to Goa. We go for breakfast at the same restaurant and then return to the Carlton Hotel to pack up and check out. The check out time is early at hotels in Colaba Causeway because of the shortage of hotels and competition to find rooms, but we make sure we shower before we leave because it will be another grueling bus trip down to Goa.

Frank calls the bus terminal before we leave the hotel. The bus to Goa that we want leaves at 5 pm and arrives at 7 am. There is another one that leaves in the early morning and arrives around dinner time, but the first one is more convenient and gets us to Goa sooner. We are allowed to leave our loaded bikes in a storage room for a few hours while we visit the pier in front of the Taj Mahal Hotel.

We are just killing time as we don't really have enough time to explore new areas of the city. We know it will be a sleepless night so we are just taking it easy and conserving our energy. The pier at the Gateway of India has lots of activity but it is also quite possible to sit, smell the salty air and relax to the sound of the gulls' cries. We pass a couple hours here.

Afterwards, we walk through the mall in the Taj again, have a light meal for lunch and shop for fruit and sandwich supplies before we return to pick up our bikes. It is a long, stressful ride up to the long distance bus terminal through the midday traffic. I doubt there is much difference in traffic during the day, except for some slowdowns in rush hour. Driving is always zany in India. Drivers take insane risks with little or no room for errors. It is surprising that more people aren't killed.

We arrive an hour before the bus is due to leave. The bus in the bay is not allowing anyone to board yet but we don't wait in the terminal this time. We stay right by the door so we will be the first two on the bus. It is a fairly modern bus, a few years old perhaps, but in better condition that our bus from Udaipur. It is the suspension more than the air conditioning that makes a bus comfortable at this tie of year when it is not yet too hot.

The driver loads our bikes into the last baggage compartment under the bus and we take our seats near the back. The bus is almost full by the time we leave. The bus leaves the station on time and spends the first hour going north through the rush hour traffic to get out of the city. Once we leave the island that Mumbai occupies, our speed picks up and we turn south towards Goa. The highway south has the same speed bumps as the road from Udaipur. They throw us out of seats whenever the driver hits them at a high speed and we are not braced for them. My arm gets tired from bracing myself as the night rolls on. At points I slump down in my seat to brace no knees against the seat in front of me instead, but my back gets sore after a few minutes when I do thttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifhis.

The daylight has faded and night is coming on by the time we are beyond Mumbai. It is a pity that most of the trip will be done in the dark. Seeing the landscapes rolling by would ease the discomfort and make the torment bearable. We do the best we can to vary our positions and make the best of a bad situation.

20 years ago today – Day 331

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Tuesday, January 28th – Mumbai

I have had the most wonderful night's sleep. I really needed it. I wake to the honking and shouting that is common fare on the streets of India. It is so exciting to be in Mumbai as close to the end of my endless trip. It is hard to believe I have made it this far. I am the first one in the shower as Frank is still only half awake.

We go for breakfast at the Leopold Restaurant in the neighbourhood. It is an interesting place, a good place to lounge and people watch. Besides the backpacker crowd, the restaurant is a popular place for Saudis and other Middle East types. The streets here remind me of New York but with less tension. There is a constant commotion, even at night, and so many things happening at once.

After breakfast, Frank and I walk to the jetty at the south end of Colaba Causeway and back up to Marine Drive at Back Bay. He wants to check Poste Restante at the main post office again and then tour the Prince of Wales Museum. I am in a mellow space and want to stay outside in the semi-fresh sea air, so I go my own way to keep walking.

I end up at the pier of the Gateway of India again, in front of the massive Taj Mahal Hotel. The pier is alive with activity. There are tourists and backpackers walking around and several merchants with their wares set up on the ground in front of them. It seems that everything is for sale here: soaps, clothing, tools, toys and books. I talk with a couple backpackers from England and the US. They tell me that most items here are counterfeit, including brand names like 'Camay'. The packaging has been carefully recreated but there is a good chance that the contents don't resemble the original. I sniff a bar of soap while the merchant regards me nervously. It should be perfumed but it isn't.

There was an article in an English newspaper I read at the restaurant this morning, about responses from foreigners solicited about products manufactured in India. The people interviewed had lots of reservations about Indian goods, saying that they cannot be depended upon. It is the quality that is the problem. With clothing, it is not the cloth but the thread that is the problem. I have learned this already. My lovely Rajasthan pants with colourful embroidery and pieces of mirror on the cuffs are already falling apart as the thread breaks. Also, often the dyes are not set and they run when washed. So I don't buy any clothing. I buy a novel instead, assuming I cannot go wrong with that.

I stop by one vendor who is chatting with a cute backpacker with a lovely, welcoming smile. I greet them both as soon learn the older man is not a vendor, but a sage of some sort. He has a spiritual, balanced energy that enthralls me. The cute backpacker moves on, which is fine because the sage has captured my interest. He asks me about my life in Canada and what I have learned from my travels. I answer him honestly that I am still to close to my experiences to analyze them yet, that I am still trying to figure that out. I love how his questions and responses seem so free of judgment. We chat about many things for as hour or so and I feel invigorated by our talk.

I thank him for his time and generosity and leave the pier. I walk through the Taj Mahal on the way back to my hotel. The main floor has mall with a wide variety of shops. I stop into a pharmacy to look for hair bleach. Again, as in Udaipur, I can only find small tubs of bleaching cream that Indian women use to bleach their mustaches. I buy a tub and take it back to my room.

My first attempt to beach my hair is not very satisfying. I left it on for 15 minutes but that isn't enough. The short hair on the sides of my head are now brown but the longer hair on top of my head has a disturbing burgundy tone and it's not very even in colour. I walk back to the pharmacy, more self-conscious than ever about my hair colour, and buy another tub. I want to complete a second bleaching before Frank returns.

The second bleaching evens out much of the colour, but the sides are now a dark blond, the back of my head (according to Frank) is now a light blond and the top of my head is now a medium brown with a hint of purple it in, just enough to look weird. I don't want to try again as my hair is already feeling fried. It looks better than the black, but definitely not natural.

Frank is kind enough to say it looks better, but I get the sense he is just trying to be unjustifiably nice. I can use a little of that now so I don't object. When the time comes we head out for dinner again, choosing a different restaurant this time, but one just as fine as last night. Mumbai is full of restaurants so it is hard to choose one. When we return to our room after dinner, I settle down to read the novel I purchased on the pier. It is a good one and I am quickly engrossed, but at page 29 it suddenly changes to a different story by some other author. I feel disappointed, because I have been duped again. I wouldn't care it was a second hand book, or one that has been copied, but obviously Indian counterfeiters have no interest in developing a repeat clientele.


PHOTO 1: Taj Mahal Palace Hotel
PHOTO 2: Bombay Municipal Building

20 years ago today – Day 330

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Monday, January 27th – arrive in Mumbai

The bus rolls into the Long Distance Mumbai Bus Depot early in the morning, when Monday rush hour is in full swing. I am groggy and bleary eyed and so ready to sleep but life doesn’t work that way when you need it to. Frank and I load up our bikes and try to figure out where we are. Our guide book shows we are on Boman Behram Marg, quite near the YMCA International Guest House. But it is still several kilometres for the core, and we down want to ride in Mumbai traffic every time we need to go somewhere.

The guide suggests the cheapest hotels are in a strip called the Colaba Causeway, right in the city centre beside the Gateway of India, the most famous landmark in Mumbai. We ride south until we reach Back Bay, a semi-circular bay between Malabar Hill to the west and the southern point of Mumbai to the east, which is Colaba Causeway. It is just to the behind the Taj Mahal Intercontinental Hotel.


We follow Marine Drive east, around the shore of the bay. It is a scenic route, obviously designed by the British. At the end of the drive, we are only a kilometre away from the Causeway, which is on the opposite side of the peninsula. There are a myriad of cheap hotels in the Causeway, but it is good that we are here early because they fill up fast. The one we choose is the Carlton, which has reasonably priced rooms and the rooms and hallways are cleaner than the first one we looked at. It is immediately behind the Taj Mahal Hotel and only 200 m from the Gateway of India.

I am so dead tired after my shower that I go straight to bed. Frank does too, but when I wake up around 2 pm he has already slipped out. I decided to head out and do my errands. The consist of visiting the Tourist Office, which is in Churchgate, a kilometre north and closer to Back Bay. Streets in the Causeway are a calm chaos but near Churchgate they are all broad avenues. The tourist office is open and busy. The staff are efficient and show me a host of brochures. I only want a local map with more detail than my guide book, and they have them.

Churchgate used to be one of the gates of the city before the walls were torn down in the middle of the last century. Now it is know for its huge train station, the second largest in the city. It stands impressively high for a train station. I presume, until I see the sign, that it is a cathedral, perhaps responsible for giving the neighbourhood its name.

The largest and most famous station is the Victoria Terminus Railway Station, back on the east side of the peninsula but further north. It’s a fifteen minute walk from the Tourist Office. I head there because the main post office is across from the station, and I am hoping I will have some mail waiting for me. I haven’t received any main since Istanbul.

But I am disappointed again. I suppose everyone thinks I will be home soon enough anyway, but other than speaking to my parents I haven’t heard from any of my friends in months. Perhaps my mail was returned too early, or lost or stolen.

I walk back south past the old Custom House, the majestic Town Hall, the tiny St Andrews Church and the Prince of Wales Museum, the latter being one of the splendid buildings in the core. From in front of the museum I can see the Gateway of India, a heavy basalt structure that was built in 1911 for George V and Queen Mary’s visit. It sits at the end of an expansive dock that is full of activity. But I am too tired to take any more in. I make it back to the hotel and return to my bed.


Frank wakes me up when he comes in an hour later. He has been to the tourist office too, as well as the post office and has done some banking. He is hungry and ready to go eat. I pull myself together and we head out. We find one called the Apsara, which specializes in Indian and Chinese food. It is delicious, but with a meal in my belly I am more tired than ever. Frank is too so we stroll back to our room. We are both in bed by 9 pm.


PHOTO 1: in the Colaba Causeway
PHOTO 2: Churchgate Station
PHOTO 3: Victoria Terminus Railway Station
PHOTO 4: Prince of Wales Museum
PHOTO 5: the Gateway of India
PHOTO 6: Taj Mahal Hotel/Palace in front of Colaba Causeway

20 years ago today – Day 329

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Sunday , January 26th – Udaipur, catch bus to Mumbai

It is sunny and cool this morning as I take a walk Frank before we stop for breakfast. We first walk to the base of City Palace and to its intimidatingly high walls, with its many turrets crowned with pagoda-styled observation posts that look like gazebos. It is so massive. We follow the base of the walls down to the lake, and from there we follow the lake shore for a kilometre, circling the lake in a clockwise direction.

It’s a lovely Sunday morning, perfect for a walk along the shore. At first, there is a haze or smog that hanging over the valley that keeps the city in shadows. By the time we are across the lake from the City Palace the morning sun is high enough now to light up its walls with a golden glow. The distance mountains to the south still have a layer of mist along their base, but the Lake Palace stands out clearly in front of them. The island it sits on is completely consumed by the palace, so the buildings seems to float on the surface of the lake. From what I can see, it seems to be a shallow lake. We pass several women washing clothes at one of the lakeside ghats, dressed in their colourful Indian saris. This place is so beautiful.

We cut back into the city streets that slope up from the lake to reach the bus depot. We find the ticket booth and learn that there is a bus leaving at 4 pm for Mumbai. It will arrive around 8:30 tomorrow morning. After purchasing our tickets we wander back into the centre of the city looking for a place to have breakfast.

I dread this coming bus trip. It already sounds like an ordeal. I realize that I am resisting leaving Udaipur so soon, and even resisting ending my trip, as tired as I am or traveling. I won’t be able to deny that it’s the end of the trip once I have arrived in the city I will be flying home from, even if it’s still almost three weeks away. We walk back to our hotel and complete our check out, leaving our bikes and bags there until later this afternoon.

Frank is anxious to see about his rear wheel so we search together to find the address of the bike shop that Edward told us about last night. It takes us half an hour. By the time we get there it is already noon. One of the mechanics is familiar with Western mountain bikes. He tells Frank that the spokes are too tight and that is why they are breaking. He shows him how much looser the front ones are.

Finally knowing why the spokes of his rear wheel have been breaking puts Frank in a jovial mood. We return to the hotel and they let him work on his bike on the rear patio. He doesn’t need my help so I set off looking for a pharmacy. The manager of the hotel points me towards the nearest one. It turns out to be very small and doesn’t have any hair bleach except for small tubs of bleach cream used by Indian women to bleach their moustaches. I search around for other pharmacies but only find one. It too has nothing else. The proprietor looks at me very puzzled. He has never heard of hair bleach for men. I decide to wait and look in stores in Mumbai, which should be better stocked and more international. Now that we have check out of our hotel I have no place to bleach my hair here anyway.

Frank has almost finished truing his wheel by the time I return. I watch wrap it up and then we load up our bikes and head to the bus depot to be there an hour early. We see the bus to Mumbai sitting in one of the bays and walk over to it. It is a modern one with air conditioning, which is a great relief to both of us. The driver tells us we are too early and recommends we wait inside the station for half an hour. We follow his instructions but when we return at the prescribed time, he tells us it is full.

He says not to worry because a back up bus has been ordered. It pulls up five minutes later, creaking and shuddering as come to a stop. It is an old one terrible condition, undoubtedly without air conditioning or suspension. Frank goes to the first driver and complains that he has not saved a seat for us when we were first and we returned when he told us to, but the driver says there is nothing he can do now that the seats are all taken.

The one consolation is that our bus is only half full. At least until we get to Ahmedabad three hours later. From that point on it is packed and dark as the bus driver hurtles our bus along the highway with dangerous aggression. On Indian highways, metre-high concrete barriers separate the lanes on curves so drivers like ours won’t try to pass on blind corners. No doubt they would if not. One often reads about buses colliding head on in India, killing and maiming most of the passengers as well as the drivers.

There are also speed bumps of all the highways to discourage drivers from speeding, but they speed anyway. Before I boarded I had visions of leaning my head on one of Frank’s ample and firm shoulders as I snoozed, but there is no chance of dozing off. Each time we hit a speed bump at 60 miles/hr I am almost thrown out of my seat. I have to brace my arms against the seat in front of me most of the trip, until they are sore from doing so. I am sure even Frank would prefer enduring my head on his shoulder instead.


PHOTO 1: at the base of City Palace
PHOTO 2: Lake Palace on its island
PHOTO 3: City Palace from across the lake
PHOTO 4: women doing laundry a the cleaning ghat

20 years ago today – Day 328

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Saturday, January 25th – Ranakpur to Udaipur, 17,021 km

The ride to Udaipur begins at 9:30, after Frank and I have finished with breakfast. Our quiet route south is Hwy 32, which climbs and falls through small, isolated valleys in the rocky Aravalli Mountains. There are a few climbs but mostly, after the first hour, the road begins to drop as we leave the mountains.

This is real rural India without any tourists. We pass through a few small villages or hamlets, none of which are identified on my map. The locals are farmers, eeking out a existence. We see women carrying loads of straw and at one place where we stop for a break we watch a team of oxen being used to pump water out of a well to irrigate a small field. We never see men working here, only women. That would drive me crazy because I like to work, but the culture here is very different.

The land is quite dry in the hills, though there are always some trees and grass. The lower we drop the warmer it gets and the more vegetation we see. In some places at the higher levels the road is dirt, but not for extended periods. Frank and I are both enjoying this day with its hazy sunshine and comfortable temperature. Hwy 32 takes us half of the way through the day and the traffic remains quite light it entire length.

Around noon we merge with Hwy 76 and the story changes. This route takes us the final 45 km into the city of Udaipur, still dropping much of the way. It is increasingly busy with trucks and buses the closer we come to the city. I cross the 17,000 km mark of my trip less than half an hour before we arrive at the edge of the city.


There are some wonderful views of the city as we drop into it in the late afternoon sun. They are swallowed up by the narrow, congested city streets a few minutes later, but not before we realize we are arriving into a very special setting.

Udaipur is built on hills around a small lake named Pichola, which sounds strangely Italian. It is the commercial of south Rajasthan, just as Jaipur is the centre of northern Rajasthan. It is a city of palaces, a seat of government for local maharajas for a couple hundred years. There is a huge complex of palaces called City Palace, which were added on to again and again by successive maharajas. It looks like a giant fortress. It is very high and must have an impressive view over the lake. I capture a shot of it in the afternoon sun.

A couple of palaces have been turned into hotels. Udaipur has two of India’s five-star hotels, which is impressive considering the city only has about 150,000 people. I like it better than Jaipur because it is smaller, greener and less dusty. It is not as flat either, which makes it more scenic.

Udaipur is the end point of our Rajasthan trip. From here, to get to Mumbai, there is only one direct and very busy route south to Ahmedabad, a huge city almost the size of Delhi, and from there down the west coast of India to Mumbai. It would take two weeks to reach there and it would not likely be pleasant cycling with all the traffic. We will catch a bus to Mumbai tomorrow, which will probably take a full day. From there we will try to arrange transport to Goa, before returning to Mumbai. There won’t be much cycling left before I fly home to Canada.

We first spend half an hour of valuable time as the day is waning, searching for the international youth hostel. We eventually find it on the outskirts of town, but it is full. But our search has not been a total waste of time. We meet another cyclist staying there, a rather glum fellow named Edward, who has a tear in his front tire. He has inner tube patches but has not been able to find any patches strong enough to patch a tire at the bike store in town. I have tire patches so I give him two. Now that I am near the end of my trip I don’t think I will need them. He is thrilled and gives Frank the address of the bike store where he can check out why his rear spokes keep breaking.

There’s not much light left so we check the Lonely Planet Guide to find a cheap hotel. We chose the Lakeside Hotel, right in the city, on a sloping street close to but not right on the lakeside as it suggests. The prices have risen significantly since it was listed in the guide, but the management is friendly, the rooms are not dorms, it has room for our bikes and it is central to everything, which the youth hostel at the top of the hill definitely was not.

We find a restaurant a few doors away from our hotel and enjoy a great meal while we discuss tomorrow’s plans. At the hotel, there is a brochure about the motor launch that takes visitors to Lake Palace, the five-star hotel situated on an island in the lake. It has a breakfast buffet with 230 different food items for the equivalent of $30. We muse over whether we want to do this to celebrate the end of our Rajasthan adventure, but a day’s worth of food generally costs us no more than $2. Neither of us like hanging around the type of high-end tourists that would attract.

We also discuss touring the sprawling City Palace, which would take at least a couple hours. We may not have enough time. In the morning we will check out the bus schedules for Mumbai to figure out what we can do here. Neither of us want to leave before tomorrow afternoon. We want to have time to check out the city sights, at least briefly. Frank wants to find the bike store and I want to find a pharmacy where I can buy some hair bleach.


PHOTO 1: hills south of Ranakpur
PHOTO 2: oxen used to pump water
PHOTO 3: woman carrying straw
PHOTO 4: local transport
PHOTO 5: coming into Udaipur
PHOTO 6: City Palace, Udaipur

20 years ago today – Day 327

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Friday, January 24th – Devgarh to Ranakpur, 16,918 km

Frank has a smirk on his face this morning that broadens into a smile whenever he looks at me. "Is it that bad?" I ask, referring to my new hair colour. "Perhaps you could be an extra in a horror movie with a little make-up," he chuckles. "I wish I had a mirror," I groan, "or maybe not." "Oh, it's not that bad," he consoles me, suppressing another grin.


Today we are riding to the Jain Temple at Ranakpur, one of the most highly recommended sites to visit in Rajasthan. It will be our last stop before Udaipur. By air, it would be about 60 km but the most direct route by road requires us to cross the Aravalli Mountains and follow the east side of the mountains south to the town of Sadri, and then back into a valley in the mountains. It will take about 85 km.

It is a pleasant day with a little wind that keeps changing direction. It is in our faces while we crossing the mountains west of Devgarh. But crossing the mountains actually means dropping from the plateau that Devgarh is on to a plain 200 m lower in altitude, so it is an easy crossing. Frank stops to catch of picture of me with my black hair coasting down the hill to catch up to him.

Once east of the mountains, our route is relatively level. We are using a minor state highway to make our way south to Sadri. It zigs and zags inefficiently, but that means there are fewer trucks. It is a wonderful route, really. I am very glad we chose it. There are only a few villages along the way, but we have brought enough food and water to last us to Ranakpur.

At Sadri we turn left, back towards the mountains, and we climb from 360 m to 1080 m to get up to the pass over the Aravali Mountains, and from there we drop down part way to another highway that follows a trench valley south to the great temple. The temple, made of white marble, sits impressively in the middle of the valley floor with its mountain backdrop, its turrets and shikharas adorned with flags. It is 20 m square and very ornate. Inside it has 1440 columns, each uniquely carved. Walking through it, I am astonished by the detail. It was truly made with love. My guide book says it was made over a 400 year period.

In spite of its notoriety, it is a real temple, not a tourist attraction. We are, in fact, almost alone in the temple except for the priests and a small number of worshippers. The priests, wearing Jain robes, are friendly and happy to meet us. One of them gives us a quick tour of the temple and points us in the direction of the Sun Temple, another smaller temple on the same property. I wander over to it on my own. There are a couple of women wandering through it who find it very humourous that I am there. I ask one of the English speaking priests why they were tittering. Apparently it is a fertility temple where women come to ask for a husband. He tells me they were probably joking that I have been sent by the gods. Only if their gods have a cruel sense of humour, I think to myself.

Back at the main temple, one of the priests introduces us to the head priest, a slender, effeminate man with a graceful poise. He questions us about our travels and then tells us that he will be making his first trip outside of India next year. It will be a trip to the United States. He is looking forward to it but he has some set and negative ideas about the Western world. One thing he finds decadent is that men and women hold hands. I explain to him that it is just a cultural thing. In India boys and men hold hands which we would find this bold and sometimes unacceptable. 'Oh yes, because they think this means they are..." he struggles to find the right word "...homosexual." "Right," I say, smiling because of his obvious effeminate leanings. I wish I could talk to him after his trip to learn how it was for him.


One of the priests offers to take our picture, me with my arm slung over Frank's muscular shoulders and his arms folded across his chest. They have a fascination with us as two men together, though somehow they seem to have figured out that I am gay and Frank is not. I am not aware of giving off any clues, but one of the priests is rubbing my foot with his foot under the table, rather boldly. I don't let on to Frank what is happening, No one is pursuing him although he is hunkier and more handsome.

The priest who is flirting with me offers to show me the underground chamber where the treasures of the temple were hidden whenever the temple was threatened with attack. Frank says he wants to stay put, so I follow the young priest to the underground chamber. He makes no attempt to play tour guide. As soon as we have climbed down the ladder to the underground chamber, which is a smallish room where one might keep their canning preserves, he whips out his cock and starts beating off. I join him and we watch each other cum. It has been 11 weeks since I have masturbated, but my long-awaited climax is very anti-climactic.

When we return, about 15 minutes after we left, Frank decides is it time to find a room in the nearby village. The inn is small and rudimentary. We boil some water to make noodles with cheese and bread for dinner. I feel mildly sheepish about the episode with the priest in the underground chamber. If Frank sensed anything was going on between us he certainly isn't letting on. In retrospect, I think the episode was rather funny but disappointing too, after a record length of abstention. I regret that my record is not still intact.


PHOTO 1: me with my new hair colour
PHOTO 2: the entrance to Ranakpur Temple
PHOTO 3: a Sun Temple nearby
PHOTO 4: the Jain Sun Temple up close
PHOTO 5: inside Ranakpur, forest of columns
PHOTO 6: the columns in detail
PHOTO 7: the ceiling of the centre of the temple
PHOTO 8: detail of marble frescoes
PHOTO 9: Frank and I cuddling together
PHOTO 10: bleached out pic on me and elephant's ass

20 years ago today – Day 326

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Thursday, January 23rd – Masuda to Devgarh, 16,833 km

With nothing much to shop for in the village of Masuda, Frank and I set off early, around 9 am, heading westward on another narrow, twisty side road towards Beawar. There is next to no traffic, a blessing in India, but he has a slight headwind. Half an hour out of Masuda the road switchbacks up 180 m to get over a rocky ridge, and then drops down again. Half an hour later we are on the outskirts of Beawar.

Beawar is a relatively new town, built by the British as a cotton and wool processing centre about 156 years ago. It has the well-planned, wider streets and streamlined look of a planned city. It is the largest city we have passed through since Jaipur. The name Beawar, which looks Indian, actually came from signs set up at the edge of town when it was created, warning locals to "Be Aware" of vehicles moving cotton.

We stop here for breakfast and to buy snacks for the road, then set out again heading south. The new road is larger, but not the main truck route. It takes us another six hours at a steady pace to reach our objective, the town of Devgarh. The road follows the flow of the Aravali Mountains south-west, passing through the villages of Bali and Barar along the way.

At one point we encounter a group of villagers gathered around a truck that has run into a small ditch. They have built a diversion to direct traffic around it, complete with a carefully-constructed rock wall with a "Diversion ->" sign on it. The ditch is very shallow and it doesn't look like it would take much to get the truck out of it, while they have probably spent hours building the diversion. Perhaps there is something else wrong with the truck preventing it from working, but Frank and I concur that it would not be unusual here to see so much energy being spent inefficiently, sometimes for no other reason but to provide employment for workers.

We also come across a team of women digging a ditch through the rocky soil with pick axes and shovels. The ditch will be used to bury optic cables for telecommunications between Delhi and Mumbai, we are told when we ask. It is hard labour, considered men's work back home, but here the men stand around and watch the women do the heavy work. It's about status, not chivalry, here.

It's our afternoon break in Barar. We stop to adjust our bags beside a school where a teacher is teaching his class in a covered area outside. The teacher pauses to speak with us in English, asking about our travels. The young boys in his class seem to be mesmerized by us so Frank snaps a picture. They don't smile or ham it up like children in Canada would. They stare transfixed as though they are trying to make sense of us.

We continue on to Devgarh, a modest-sized town, but there is plenty of traffic and a confusing street pattern. There is a campground in the vicinity but we cannot find it. I stop to ask a man on the street who gives us directions and engages us in conversation for a few minutes. His name is Gurdev and his English is excellent. He seems anxious to be an intimate friend. He tells me he is a hair salon operator and points out his shop to us. Out of politeness, I tell him that if we have enough energy we will return to visit with him.

As soon as we set up the tent, Frank inspects his rear wheel and finds two more broken spokes. He is more frustrated than I have ever seen him before, and I know well enough to leave him alone. I take a walk to the centre of town and locate Gurdev in his shop, which is empty when I arrive. "Would you like a haircut?" he asks me. I need one so I say yes. Half a dozen men of varying ages come into the shop to watch the White man get his hair cut.

Gurdev says I would look better if he dyed my hair to get rid of the grey. Oh no, I think I better not, I tell him, but he asks my viewing audience if I should have my hair dyed and they all agree I should. I laugh and give in. One should try new things when traveling, I decide, but when Gurdev starts applying black dye to my light brown hair I freak out. Not black dye! That will look terrible, I exclaim, but Gurdev explains that black is the only colour they have in India. I should insist he rinse it out right away, but I give in again, hoping that it will not look as bad as I fear it will.

It looks worse than I feared it would. Gurdev even managed to dye the top edge of my right ear black. The black colour makes my skin look so sallow, so anemic. I leave his salon regretting the whole experience, as though I have just wet my pants and there is no way to hide my accident. It will pass, but for the coming weeks I will suffer the consequences of my stupid choice.

It is pitch black (like my hair) when I get back to the campground. Frank is in his sleeping bag in the tent when I arrive. I am relieved that he won't see my hair until morning. But I don't want to shock him either. I have something to confess, I tell him. I have had my hair dyed black. Why did you do that? he asks me. I will be asking myself that question for years to come, I reply.


PHOTO 1: Hanumann Temple in Beawar
PHOTO 2: the diversion
PHOTO 3: men supervising women digging a ditch
PHOTO 4: the outdoor school room

20 years ago today – Day 325

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Wednesday, January 22nd – Pushkar to Masuda, 16,729 km

Our next major destination is Ranakpur, the holiest Jain site in Rajasthan. It is about three days ride from Pushkar, or perhaps two if we wanted to follow the truck route from Ajmer to Udaipur most of the way, but we don’t. Our map is not that detailed, but there is a longer route heading south-east towards the city of Nasirabad, an army town of about 50,000. It won’t be quite as busy as the main route, and part way to Nasirabad there is a side road that heads south through what should be a very quiet region.

Regardless of what route we end up taking, our first step of the way is to return to Ajmer. Once in Pushkar, we learned there is a shorter route back that climbs through a small pass. So we load up and head back to Ajmer. It is a pleasant ride on a smaller road but the traffic is not too quiet, being that is the most direct route between the cities. Most of the traffic in the morning seems to be coming from the direction of Ajmer, that doesn’t mean anything as trucks frequently cross onto our side to pass other traffic.

This route passes a Scouts Camp just before the climb to the pass. The climb is only 100 m, which takes us about 10 minutes, but it provides a nice view of Ajmer on the other side, and then the route takes us around the opposite side of Anasagar Lake, the beautiful lake that Ajmer is built beside. When we reach the city centre, we stop to buy fruit and breads for the rest of the trip.

At the street market, I wait beside an older woman seated with her produce for sale on the ground in front of her, while Frank finishes his purchase. One of the sweet natured ‘bapelos’ (oxen) strolls by and spies her cabbage. It rolls its eyes but waits until it is right in front of us before swinging its huge head our way and taking an impressively large bite out of the cabbage before the woman can stop it. She is on her feet swatting the bapelo’s rump and cursing it as it trots away. It was funny to see, but his poor old woman has just lost a meal’s worth of wages.

It is too early to take a long break so we set off again after 20 minutes. There doesn’t seem to be many villages on the stretch of highway we want to take. That the pay-off: a route with less traffic has fewer opportunities to buy food or fill our water bottles.
Nasirabad Road is easy enough to find, branching off from the main route after two kilometres. It too has its share of truck traffic, as well as every other kind of vehicle, but it is definitely the lesser of the two evils. We are only on it for seven kilometres, shortly past the last industrial buildings associated with Ajmer.

The side road we have chosen is paved but without painted lines for much of it. The traffic is very light, as we can see why. It twists and winds all over the place over rolling terrain. It is hard to tell which direction we are going half the time, since the sun is behind the clouds most of the way. But we trust the map and enjoy the feeling of being lost in the desert steppe lands of western India. There are short razorback mountain ridges jutting up here or there a couple kilometres away, but no passes we need to climb through.

An hour on the road brings up to a crossing with an east-west district road that leads between Nasirabad and the main truck route. At this point we can place where we are on my not-too-detailed map. From here to the town of Masada, our road is flatter and generally straighter, but just as barren and unpopulated most of the way. Closer to Masada, we see more farmers and vehicles, but that is almost two hours further.


Masada is not much of a town, but it does have an inn, which saves us having to cycle another hour west to Beawar, a city of 100,000 on the truck route south from Ajmer. There are small stalls to buy our dinner in and desert stalls too, but no facilities for travelers other than these. We are well off the beaten path and are probably the only foreigners in the town tonight. It is boring but cheap.

Frank has yet another broken spoke and he is fretting over it quite a bit. He is getting faster at fixing them though. We won’t be able to find a bike shop before Udaipur and he is getting low on spokes. He’s down to his last half-dozen. I forgot to bring any spare spokes for myself so I am glad I am not having his re-occurring problem.


PHOTO 1: leaving Pushkar
PHOTO 2: friendly cow at the market in Ajmer
PHOTO 3: small village of Masuda
PHOTO 4: women in the desert outside of Masuda
PHOTO 5: temple outside of Masuda