Mysore, 19 Nov 2019, 4:45 am
Karnataka has a sprinkling of unmarked speed breakers all over, even on roads which are speed breakers in themselves. It's tiring to be alert, and quite often we run over speed breakers at 70 km/hr, and it's a bit unpleasant, but doable thanks to the suspension. The suspension on the Tiger 800 XCA is called WP (White Power - whoever came up with that!), and it has over 21 cm of travel at both the front and the rear. For the most part we can glide over bad roads. The trade-off is that the bike is tall, and it's difficult to 'put bends' on corners, and a fall feels like one off a horse.
For the next few hours we ride silently, past fields of sugar cane, rice, corn and arecanut. We stop to stretch, and to eat. The bike draws looks and questions. Price? Mileage? Over the years I've been asked if I was a vagabond, or an advertisement. I get a machined cut and a clean shave so people hesitate to mess with the potential army man.
As we cross Shivamoga, there are plenty of ponds and lakes that spring up on the side of the road, and it feels lush at the start of the dry season. Lunch at Sirsi was the first of a series of simple (and same) meals for around Rs 70. The quality of the betel leaves and arecanut in the Sweet Paan is exceptional, and it remained so across Uttar Kannada.
From Sirsi, we have to reach Anshi-Kali National Park before sunset and find accommodation. We're close to Yellapur when we see a signboard saying 'Magod falls'. This trip was originally conceived as a waterfall hunt, and got postponed 3-4 times. Magod falls was one that Manju has had eyes on for some time, so we decided to take a u-turn. As I turn to my right, I lose balance and we fall.
Manju has a partial tear in his Anterior Cruciate Ligament in his right knee from earlier this year. And during this fall he landed right on that knee and his entire weight fell on it. I hear the bike fall, and I get up to see his face in distress as he cluthes the right knee. There is petrol leaking thanks to the incline. Thankfully there is some traffic, and people come to help me lift the bike up.
Manju's knee is throbbing, and he has felt this before once when he returned to the basketball court too soon from the injury. It's not a tear, but the knee feels like a pissed off snake, hissing and rumbling to let you know that something is wrong. We sit, walk up and down, and thankfully it's not a serious re-injury. Much stretching later we are off, and my shoulders are stiff and tense. I cannot wait for the ride to end. I'm telling him that we'll rest one day, and if he doesn't feel better, we'll head back to Mysore.
I feel guilty at having dropped the bike, and I realise that u-turns on the right is something that I am not good at. My legs are not strong enough for a load on the bike. We are tired and ragged now, and I'm thinking what an unpleasant end to the first day. The throbbing knee makes it hard to sit pillion, and pain is magnified. The perks of sensory distractions are so clear while switching between rider and pillion.
After the fall, we ditch the original plan and head towards Dandeli. Because we have no bookings, the end is not in sight. An hour later at 4 PM, it's been 10 hours and we are gassed. We stop at a scenic bridge for more stretching. Manju's knee is still throbbing, and sitting tight is not helping. He groans as he gets off and stretches. The pain is written on his face.
Less than 30 minutes later we find Kulgi Nature Camp. We are there, the tents are empty, yet I am asked to book online first. An example of mindless application of 'Digital India'. There is no network or signal in the forest, yet the distrust in the system demands that they insist on online bookings and payments.
I try talking nicely, and they insist I go to Dandeli town and book online. The injured knee card is not enough. Then in a moment of nothing-to-lose madness I raise the lack of professionalism and service, and rant about how salaries are paid to these people and they don't do work. This irks one Forest Official there and he takes exception. To my luck I am able to pacify him saying that I'm not talking about him but the system in general, and it wakes him from the slumber. We get a tent.
Here I felt that I need to know the law. Under which act does the Forest Department establish these Nature Camps, and what are the laws and rules that govern them? The Forest officials are not used to being challenged, and one needs to know the law to be able to speak effectively.
We get a tent for 1400, and it's a great price. I'm trying to compare the prices to 15 years back - we used to spend between 200 to 400 per night for two people back then. Manju likes view points and we walk to one nearby from where mobile phones can make calls. While being photographed his favourite pose is back-to-the-camera, so we take turns.
The next morning I wake up remembering that I had killed a small scorpion the previous night as it crawled near the shoes, and I can't find the dead scorpion. Dead meat doesn't last long here.
We go bird watching, thru a 'Trail' marked out by the Forest Department. In one tree right on the main road we see dozens of birds, and we stand there for a long time. Manju clicks away. Later he'd say that he wants to know what he's clicking in the future. The 'Bird Trail' doubled as a Timber Trail, with logs of wood meant for commercial use. It's a reminder that the Forest Department is primarily a tool of exploitation of forest resources - controlling access and profiting. Conservation here is akin to Corporate Social Responsibility for Capitalists. Then again, we all use wood, and it has to come from somewhere, so we should also ask questions about consumption.
By 10 AM we are ready to head out for the waterfalls. Manju's knees feel alright, and we ditch the big side-boxes, so it feels light and slender. We ride thru the same forest that we passed thru the previous evening, and it feels beautiful and relaxed this time. Besides fatigue and injury, uncertainty over the end point makes a lot of difference.
Two hours and some broken roads later we are at Magod falls. It's a misnomer as it's merely a view point. Still, the view is mesemerising, and we are elated to be present there. It's been a dream for Manju to see Magod falls so there is a lot of excitement. We take the usual back-to-the-camera pictures. I give out safety advice as he heads to the rock beyond the rails on the cliff, and I feel old. I used to be that guy, and now I'm catching myself giving advice. In my mind it feels like the waterfall is as good over here as from the cliff - clearly I don't know better anymore. I am happy for his enthusiasm, and I love the contagious nature of it.
We go to a view point afterwards to see the Kali river in the plains. There are a couple of couples there and I feel bad about interrupting their privacy, but they seem less than bothered. They take photos, and the women are working on their hair for the pictures. We give them some space and sit some distance away. A security guard walks down with a ledger that we fill. The chit-chat reveals that he is less than pleased about 'non-family' people visiting the cliff. He also tells us that a month back some guy couldn't suffer thru a love failure and came here and jumped off the cliff, hence the register.
The security guy felt that the couples need to be asked to leave, because this is a Family Place. I love the importance accorded to Family in Indian society. Even if Families abuse their adults or children, as long as they are legally sanctioned by society as Family, it's cool. But unmarried couples at view points? That is like loose Plutonium.
Manju tells me that at Sathodi falls we can jump into the water. It's a 30 km stretch of ruins of roads, and some parts are entirely loose stones on steep hairpins. I am feeling the pressure, and the thought that we'll have to ride back up these roads is nagging me. We walk quickly to the falls, and it's gorgeous. The Rhesus Macaques close in on our belongings - helmets, footwear and clothes. There are stones everywhere, so it's a volley that the monkeys can't stand, and they retreat to pockets higher up on the rock face. We keep a close eye, and cannot truly relax. Still, the water was refreshing and I received a brief back massage from one set of rapids. Manju is amazed with how his back looks in the pictures, and we take enough back-to-the-camera photos to respect the gym work put in.
The ride back is aggressive and tense, and Manju holds on tight to the rails. I ride fast and he doesn't complain. He observed later that there were a lot of bends to the right on the way back, and he was worried about a fall to the right, where his injured knee resided. I told him that he should feel free to communicate without hesitation.
We reach back just before sunset, after 185 km. The next morning we go to Dandeli and I book a room at Anshi, and two nights at Cocopelli Surf School in Gokarna. With a big bike and bulky riding gear unplanned ends are less appealing. I realise this when I feel a sense of calm and relief after the next three nights are made certain.
We eat Hubli-Dharwad style meals, and it feels distinctly different from anything we'd eaten so far. Jowar rotis, and the way the vegetables were cooked were different and very nice. The bypolls are on in Karnataka, and the TV is blaring news, flashing endless graphics to keep pace with the decreasing attention span.
Manju rides slowly thru the forest and it feels peaceful at 60-70 km/hr. Maybe he wanted to experience this after the previous evening's mad ride. I felt completely relaxed, and it was my favourite stretch in the entire trip. The forest itself was so lush and rarely interrupted. There were laterite bricks everywhere, and it feels like the buildings are one with the surroundings.
That afternoon we decide to split. He takes the bike to a view point at Kadra Dam, while I find a stream nearby that I want to explore. Leaving the chappals where people can find them, for evidence, I set off barefoot on the shallow, stony riverbed.
As soon as I found a comfortable perch on the river, the leeches show up, and I realise that the jungle is only idyllic in pictures. Even at the start of the dry season, there are leeches in the wettest regions. It's also a sign of a healthy ecosystem, so I'm happy to see them.
I head back, and get lost in some sand-banks with fallen trees. I'm wary of vipers hiding close to the water, and nervously find my way back. I sit there and read the first book that I remember reading that affected my thought process - Waiting For The Mahatma by R K Narayan. I remember the train ride I took in the summer of 2001 - West Coast Express from Chennai to Coimbatore, on my way to a cousin's place in Payyoli, Kerala. It was a slow and empty train, and I sat by the window, in the sun. The only other person in the coupe asked me if I would like to sit in the shade opposite him, and I said no thanks, I like the sun. He didn't speak to me after that, and I remember soaking in that book. It inspired me, and when I got off that train at Coimbatore, I had changed irreversibly. I remember wishing I had been born before Independence, and wished for a sense of purpose and a girl to run behind like the main guy in the book.
Back to the present, I'm floating in nostalgia when Manju stops at the bridge and calls me to come over, he has something important to tell me. I rush up, and he says that the bike just refused to start a while ago. He's panicky and shaken up. I told him that I've been in that position and that it happens sometimes - what can you do? Worst case park the bike on the side and hitch a ride back, we'll figure something out. He took the help of some people to push the bike to start, and now he doesn't want to turn off the bike. What are we going to do - keep the engine on all night? I switch the bike off, and this time it starts. These big bikes are very rugged compared to say, Enfields. Regular parts don't break down as a matter of routine. But if something does break down, it's damn near impossible to do anything about it. There is so much computing and automation inside that it requires to be plugged to a computer to even detect the problems at the service center.
The mosquitoes in the evergreen forest are big and plentiful, and we have smoked our room with Mortein so I sit out until the smoke clears. After sunset the mosquitoes mellow down, and it's a pleasant night's sleep. The next morning we go back to the stream for a dip. Manju piles some stones on the other bank and we take aim for an hour. It was reaffirming to know that we don't need much to invent nice games on the fly.
It's a delight to float and look up at the canopy above. The water was clear and cool, and there was a piece of wood to perch on and jump off.
We don't hit our Stone Pyramid even once. Still, it's a great morning, one that reminds me of Chikmagalur and Hornadu from 20 years back, when clear water was plentiful and everywhere. We pack up and speak to a Forest Officer over breakfast. Tea for him is served in a ceramic cup, as opposed to steel for us. He enquires about real estate in Mysore with Manju and takes his number. We overhear him exacting a 100 ruppee per person cut from daily wages paid to the labourers hired by the Forest Department.
As we climb down from the Ghats, we spot the labourers who helped Manju yesterday when the bike wouldn't start. He explains things briefly, and we show thumbs up and set off. The road gets crowded once we hit the coast, and we see hordes of Enfields on the opposite side of the road, exchanging a variety of hand signals that are considered cool. There is nothing spectacular about this stretch. The bikes are going for an annual Royal Enfield congregation in Goa. I never understood these mass congregations of people in a place just because they bought the same tool. I understand it at an age when there were few riders, and people maintained their own machines for the most part.
I never understood riding clubs that had dozens of bikes going together somewhere. The whole point of riding is to experience some freedom, and what's the point of following a line then? All forms of private transport are ultimately evil, and real freedom is with a small bag, off the road and on foot.
At Cocopelli Surf school we get a decent room for 1500. The shore has a gentle slope, and the waves are perfect for bodysurfing. Wendrick taught me bodysurfing at Kovalam in 2002, and it's made some beaches so much fun. After an hour on the waves a jellyfish bounces off my legs and it's stinging. I head back to the room and the advice is to pee on it. I had just peed in the sea, so I'm wondering if I should ask for pee from one of them. The thought magically musters more pee in my bladder, and I have enough. The jellyfish here are not that bad, and I rest at ease.
We head out to town for dinner, and the center of town feels like Mylapore. There is a Deepotsav, and the Brahmins are out decorating the streets with colourful kolams. Coming from the Agrahara in Mysore, Manju is thrilled at the display of culture. The white people are suitably impressed. Blending in like Waldo is a tribal woman, whose glides thru so light on her feet that I'm fixated on her walk, and she goes undetected - nobody looks up or moves to avoid or let her pass. I'm surrounded by Brahmin uncles at the restaurant, and it feels like Mylapore.
Back at the Cocopelli Surf School, the main guy Sandeep has hired the services of a couple from Bangalore to paint the wall to his home's entrance. The theme he gave them was Waves, and the artists painted for three days. Sandeep tells me that he has a girlfriend who has given birth to their daughter 6 weeks ago in Europe. He tells me how he has a past with so many women, and now he has a daughter and things have changed. Later he sends the picture to his girlfriend, and she is pissed off.
I particularly like the artist's interpretation of the lady's face. The artist is happy with the work, and is shocked when told of The Wife's objections. As I feel a need to contribute, I tell Sandeep that maybe it's the post-partum hormonal rushes. Later with the artists he would repeat this advice, and I feel slightly guilty of being taken too seriously. People advise him to hold his ground with his wife, but ultimately he decides that the painting must go before she arrives. "I don't know why she doesn't trust me bro... after the daughter also..."
I find the use of 'bro' to be really odd and funny. I catch myself slipping into Bro mode, and I tell myself that I'm not that guy who uses 'ji' and 'bro'. Sandeep tells me that I should stay back one more day because a couple of English girls are coming to stay over, and we could party. I laugh.
The next morning I go for a long walk on the beach, and one end of the beach has road-access, so buses of Indians land there early in the morning, post their temple visits.
I see some human feces on the beach as I walk back. I walk into one of the beachside restaurants to feed, and some things don't change, like the terrible overpriced food by the beachside. Soon after I get back to the room, it all comes out, and I'm cleansed, feeling light and ready to go.
I ask Manju if he would like to join us on the beach, and he says 'of course!' Even though he cannot surf until his knee gets better, he is full of enthusiasm to watch me learn to surf. I am totally floored by his enthusiasm. After two hours sitting on the beach with no hat or shades, he has a headache, which didn't prevent him from coming the following morning again.
By 9 we are out on the beach, for surf lessons. Sandeep draws a board on the sand and we practice getting up into surfing stance, as I'm advised on the position of limbs, body and so on. The water is warm, and I'm learning to paddle and it's hard. Sandeep pushes me into a few waves and shouts 'Get up!' whenever he feels appropriate. After a few tries I stand up momentarily, and it continues like that for an hour before I am able to ride a wave for ten seconds, and it's pure elation.
Sandeep is very precise and sharp with his observations and feedback. I really like good teachers, it's a delight to learn from them. There is someone on the shore filming me for the surf school's website, so my baby steps on the surf are captured for posterity.
I go shirtless and the paddling on the board has left my front side bruised. The nipples are tender, the shoulders are tired from the paddling, but I'm happy that no jellyfish found me today. It's the paddling which got to me finally - I couldn't do it anymore, so we call it a day.
We split for lunch as I want to eat Fish Meals and the place has no vegetarian options for Manju. As I plough thru the mountain of rice with many varieties of rava-fried fish, I see an old woman seeking alms. A group of foreigners give her some money and take a picture of her in exchange.
That evening we find our way to a cliff. There is one solitary guy there, and I bet he was looking forward to some alone time on that beautiful cliff when we landed up and unintentionally drove him out. Sunset was beautiful, and Manju said it's perhaps the best he's witnessed so far. There is some Hanuman music blaring from the speakers of a temple which plays the same line on loop for hours. We adjust our position to the far side of the cliff where the sound waves can't reach so well.
Later that night I tell Sandeep that I'm considering staying back for one more day. He sits me down and tells me how it's really good if I stayed back. Normally he takes 3 lessons (for 2000 each) before one can be on their own. He would try to fit all the lessons into Day 2 for me.
In the NBA players often give themselves, or are given, nicknames. Kobe Bryant called himself Black Mamba, Lebron is The King, Paul Pierce was The Truth (one of my least favourites), Kevin Garnett 'The Big Ticket', and so on. Like that, on that evening I felt like I was conferred mine, by Sandeep. He called me a Natural.
Clearly now The Natural cannot decline surf lesson number Two on the next day. This time Manju jumps into the water and his head doesn't ache. I start off feeling like I took a step back on the surf, but slowly I get better, and I'm able to catch waves on my own. Manju is there in the water shouting and cheering as I stand up on the board. He is the best cheerleader, even a cow will stand up on the board if cheered that way. My paddling improved, and it became smooth from then on.
Three hours later I've been thru a few tumbles on the sandy floor and I'm exhausted, bruised and happy. From here on I need a board to practice and learn on my own.
Some nights at Gokarna come with low voltage, and here I thank Madras for my ability to sleep thru fanless nights. Manju, spoilt by Mysore weather, takes the pillow out of the room and sleeps on the floor outside.
The next day we leave at 6:15, and ride along the wide coastal road which would soon get overcrowded. By the time shops opened for breakfast, we were climbing up towards Agumbe.
The last day's ride is usually easier than the rest, because there is a clear and tempting end goal, and one doesn't need to save up any energy. We pass by one view point that Manju mentions casually and asks if I'd like to go, it's only 7 km. I tell him that I've had enough views, and turn down the idea, and I feel bad at dousing his enthusiasm. Later we see a board for Sirimane falls, and it's close to Sringeri. We agree to go here, and I'm mentally preparing to jump into the water to cool off. Since it's so close to Sringeri, there are many fellow tourists. Don't they have any work on a Monday morning? We quickly turn around and head back. Manju is a little disappointed, I tell him that it's the small price to pay to discover nice places, and that we should come back here during the rains when no one wants to be here.
Soon we reach Belur, and we are really tired and our legs stiff. Sitting at the back is not easy over long distances, so we take turns shifting more than usual. Sitting at the back also leaves the mind to dry out there, so all kinds of thoughts come in. There is no real sensory distraction to escape to, and mentally it's a challenging experience - one that I didn't realise while riding solo earlier. A clear and happy mind is needed to enjoy the pillion's seat.
After lots of stops and stretching, we reach Mysore by sunset. We are both happy about the trip, and it's really nice to feel the sense of exploration and learning. Manju is a good travel partner, and I'm lucky to have found him and his high energy enthusiasm.
Sleep is cut short by nerves awaiting the ride to Uttar Kannada. It feels strange to not set off alone as I wait for my riding partner, Manju Kashyap.
He's 21 and we play basketball at Mysore University. For the first time I'm on a trip with someone much younger. I wonder how Wendrick felt when they first met me at Kovalam, when they were in the mid fifties, and me 17.
Manju and I have done a short trip to Chikmagalur a year ago, and shorter rides before that, so there has been a slow progression in familiarity. The partnering gets me nostalgic about Joy and Gopal for a moment. We have 3 Aluminium boxes fitted to the bike, and he's a big guy when compared to me. I can immediately feel the weight of a pillion, which I'm not used to, and buckle down to accept it. The riding is harder with a pillion, and one can switch, so there is a neat trade-off. A few days later Manju would say that the first day of the ride is the hardest - and I found that interesting; getting out of the familiar can be boring and we have nearly 500 kms to go.
He's 21 and we play basketball at Mysore University. For the first time I'm on a trip with someone much younger. I wonder how Wendrick felt when they first met me at Kovalam, when they were in the mid fifties, and me 17.
Manju and I have done a short trip to Chikmagalur a year ago, and shorter rides before that, so there has been a slow progression in familiarity. The partnering gets me nostalgic about Joy and Gopal for a moment. We have 3 Aluminium boxes fitted to the bike, and he's a big guy when compared to me. I can immediately feel the weight of a pillion, which I'm not used to, and buckle down to accept it. The riding is harder with a pillion, and one can switch, so there is a neat trade-off. A few days later Manju would say that the first day of the ride is the hardest - and I found that interesting; getting out of the familiar can be boring and we have nearly 500 kms to go.
Karnataka has a sprinkling of unmarked speed breakers all over, even on roads which are speed breakers in themselves. It's tiring to be alert, and quite often we run over speed breakers at 70 km/hr, and it's a bit unpleasant, but doable thanks to the suspension. The suspension on the Tiger 800 XCA is called WP (White Power - whoever came up with that!), and it has over 21 cm of travel at both the front and the rear. For the most part we can glide over bad roads. The trade-off is that the bike is tall, and it's difficult to 'put bends' on corners, and a fall feels like one off a horse.
For the next few hours we ride silently, past fields of sugar cane, rice, corn and arecanut. We stop to stretch, and to eat. The bike draws looks and questions. Price? Mileage? Over the years I've been asked if I was a vagabond, or an advertisement. I get a machined cut and a clean shave so people hesitate to mess with the potential army man.
As we cross Shivamoga, there are plenty of ponds and lakes that spring up on the side of the road, and it feels lush at the start of the dry season. Lunch at Sirsi was the first of a series of simple (and same) meals for around Rs 70. The quality of the betel leaves and arecanut in the Sweet Paan is exceptional, and it remained so across Uttar Kannada.
From Sirsi, we have to reach Anshi-Kali National Park before sunset and find accommodation. We're close to Yellapur when we see a signboard saying 'Magod falls'. This trip was originally conceived as a waterfall hunt, and got postponed 3-4 times. Magod falls was one that Manju has had eyes on for some time, so we decided to take a u-turn. As I turn to my right, I lose balance and we fall.
Manju has a partial tear in his Anterior Cruciate Ligament in his right knee from earlier this year. And during this fall he landed right on that knee and his entire weight fell on it. I hear the bike fall, and I get up to see his face in distress as he cluthes the right knee. There is petrol leaking thanks to the incline. Thankfully there is some traffic, and people come to help me lift the bike up.
Manju's knee is throbbing, and he has felt this before once when he returned to the basketball court too soon from the injury. It's not a tear, but the knee feels like a pissed off snake, hissing and rumbling to let you know that something is wrong. We sit, walk up and down, and thankfully it's not a serious re-injury. Much stretching later we are off, and my shoulders are stiff and tense. I cannot wait for the ride to end. I'm telling him that we'll rest one day, and if he doesn't feel better, we'll head back to Mysore.
I feel guilty at having dropped the bike, and I realise that u-turns on the right is something that I am not good at. My legs are not strong enough for a load on the bike. We are tired and ragged now, and I'm thinking what an unpleasant end to the first day. The throbbing knee makes it hard to sit pillion, and pain is magnified. The perks of sensory distractions are so clear while switching between rider and pillion.
After the fall, we ditch the original plan and head towards Dandeli. Because we have no bookings, the end is not in sight. An hour later at 4 PM, it's been 10 hours and we are gassed. We stop at a scenic bridge for more stretching. Manju's knee is still throbbing, and sitting tight is not helping. He groans as he gets off and stretches. The pain is written on his face.
Less than 30 minutes later we find Kulgi Nature Camp. We are there, the tents are empty, yet I am asked to book online first. An example of mindless application of 'Digital India'. There is no network or signal in the forest, yet the distrust in the system demands that they insist on online bookings and payments.
I try talking nicely, and they insist I go to Dandeli town and book online. The injured knee card is not enough. Then in a moment of nothing-to-lose madness I raise the lack of professionalism and service, and rant about how salaries are paid to these people and they don't do work. This irks one Forest Official there and he takes exception. To my luck I am able to pacify him saying that I'm not talking about him but the system in general, and it wakes him from the slumber. We get a tent.
Here I felt that I need to know the law. Under which act does the Forest Department establish these Nature Camps, and what are the laws and rules that govern them? The Forest officials are not used to being challenged, and one needs to know the law to be able to speak effectively.
We get a tent for 1400, and it's a great price. I'm trying to compare the prices to 15 years back - we used to spend between 200 to 400 per night for two people back then. Manju likes view points and we walk to one nearby from where mobile phones can make calls. While being photographed his favourite pose is back-to-the-camera, so we take turns.
The next morning I wake up remembering that I had killed a small scorpion the previous night as it crawled near the shoes, and I can't find the dead scorpion. Dead meat doesn't last long here.
We go bird watching, thru a 'Trail' marked out by the Forest Department. In one tree right on the main road we see dozens of birds, and we stand there for a long time. Manju clicks away. Later he'd say that he wants to know what he's clicking in the future. The 'Bird Trail' doubled as a Timber Trail, with logs of wood meant for commercial use. It's a reminder that the Forest Department is primarily a tool of exploitation of forest resources - controlling access and profiting. Conservation here is akin to Corporate Social Responsibility for Capitalists. Then again, we all use wood, and it has to come from somewhere, so we should also ask questions about consumption.
By 10 AM we are ready to head out for the waterfalls. Manju's knees feel alright, and we ditch the big side-boxes, so it feels light and slender. We ride thru the same forest that we passed thru the previous evening, and it feels beautiful and relaxed this time. Besides fatigue and injury, uncertainty over the end point makes a lot of difference.
We go to a view point afterwards to see the Kali river in the plains. There are a couple of couples there and I feel bad about interrupting their privacy, but they seem less than bothered. They take photos, and the women are working on their hair for the pictures. We give them some space and sit some distance away. A security guard walks down with a ledger that we fill. The chit-chat reveals that he is less than pleased about 'non-family' people visiting the cliff. He also tells us that a month back some guy couldn't suffer thru a love failure and came here and jumped off the cliff, hence the register.
The security guy felt that the couples need to be asked to leave, because this is a Family Place. I love the importance accorded to Family in Indian society. Even if Families abuse their adults or children, as long as they are legally sanctioned by society as Family, it's cool. But unmarried couples at view points? That is like loose Plutonium.
Manju tells me that at Sathodi falls we can jump into the water. It's a 30 km stretch of ruins of roads, and some parts are entirely loose stones on steep hairpins. I am feeling the pressure, and the thought that we'll have to ride back up these roads is nagging me. We walk quickly to the falls, and it's gorgeous. The Rhesus Macaques close in on our belongings - helmets, footwear and clothes. There are stones everywhere, so it's a volley that the monkeys can't stand, and they retreat to pockets higher up on the rock face. We keep a close eye, and cannot truly relax. Still, the water was refreshing and I received a brief back massage from one set of rapids. Manju is amazed with how his back looks in the pictures, and we take enough back-to-the-camera photos to respect the gym work put in.
The ride back is aggressive and tense, and Manju holds on tight to the rails. I ride fast and he doesn't complain. He observed later that there were a lot of bends to the right on the way back, and he was worried about a fall to the right, where his injured knee resided. I told him that he should feel free to communicate without hesitation.
We reach back just before sunset, after 185 km. The next morning we go to Dandeli and I book a room at Anshi, and two nights at Cocopelli Surf School in Gokarna. With a big bike and bulky riding gear unplanned ends are less appealing. I realise this when I feel a sense of calm and relief after the next three nights are made certain.
We eat Hubli-Dharwad style meals, and it feels distinctly different from anything we'd eaten so far. Jowar rotis, and the way the vegetables were cooked were different and very nice. The bypolls are on in Karnataka, and the TV is blaring news, flashing endless graphics to keep pace with the decreasing attention span.
Manju rides slowly thru the forest and it feels peaceful at 60-70 km/hr. Maybe he wanted to experience this after the previous evening's mad ride. I felt completely relaxed, and it was my favourite stretch in the entire trip. The forest itself was so lush and rarely interrupted. There were laterite bricks everywhere, and it feels like the buildings are one with the surroundings.
That afternoon we decide to split. He takes the bike to a view point at Kadra Dam, while I find a stream nearby that I want to explore. Leaving the chappals where people can find them, for evidence, I set off barefoot on the shallow, stony riverbed.
As soon as I found a comfortable perch on the river, the leeches show up, and I realise that the jungle is only idyllic in pictures. Even at the start of the dry season, there are leeches in the wettest regions. It's also a sign of a healthy ecosystem, so I'm happy to see them.
I head back, and get lost in some sand-banks with fallen trees. I'm wary of vipers hiding close to the water, and nervously find my way back. I sit there and read the first book that I remember reading that affected my thought process - Waiting For The Mahatma by R K Narayan. I remember the train ride I took in the summer of 2001 - West Coast Express from Chennai to Coimbatore, on my way to a cousin's place in Payyoli, Kerala. It was a slow and empty train, and I sat by the window, in the sun. The only other person in the coupe asked me if I would like to sit in the shade opposite him, and I said no thanks, I like the sun. He didn't speak to me after that, and I remember soaking in that book. It inspired me, and when I got off that train at Coimbatore, I had changed irreversibly. I remember wishing I had been born before Independence, and wished for a sense of purpose and a girl to run behind like the main guy in the book.
Back to the present, I'm floating in nostalgia when Manju stops at the bridge and calls me to come over, he has something important to tell me. I rush up, and he says that the bike just refused to start a while ago. He's panicky and shaken up. I told him that I've been in that position and that it happens sometimes - what can you do? Worst case park the bike on the side and hitch a ride back, we'll figure something out. He took the help of some people to push the bike to start, and now he doesn't want to turn off the bike. What are we going to do - keep the engine on all night? I switch the bike off, and this time it starts. These big bikes are very rugged compared to say, Enfields. Regular parts don't break down as a matter of routine. But if something does break down, it's damn near impossible to do anything about it. There is so much computing and automation inside that it requires to be plugged to a computer to even detect the problems at the service center.
The mosquitoes in the evergreen forest are big and plentiful, and we have smoked our room with Mortein so I sit out until the smoke clears. After sunset the mosquitoes mellow down, and it's a pleasant night's sleep. The next morning we go back to the stream for a dip. Manju piles some stones on the other bank and we take aim for an hour. It was reaffirming to know that we don't need much to invent nice games on the fly.
It's a delight to float and look up at the canopy above. The water was clear and cool, and there was a piece of wood to perch on and jump off.
As we climb down from the Ghats, we spot the labourers who helped Manju yesterday when the bike wouldn't start. He explains things briefly, and we show thumbs up and set off. The road gets crowded once we hit the coast, and we see hordes of Enfields on the opposite side of the road, exchanging a variety of hand signals that are considered cool. There is nothing spectacular about this stretch. The bikes are going for an annual Royal Enfield congregation in Goa. I never understood these mass congregations of people in a place just because they bought the same tool. I understand it at an age when there were few riders, and people maintained their own machines for the most part.
I never understood riding clubs that had dozens of bikes going together somewhere. The whole point of riding is to experience some freedom, and what's the point of following a line then? All forms of private transport are ultimately evil, and real freedom is with a small bag, off the road and on foot.
At Cocopelli Surf school we get a decent room for 1500. The shore has a gentle slope, and the waves are perfect for bodysurfing. Wendrick taught me bodysurfing at Kovalam in 2002, and it's made some beaches so much fun. After an hour on the waves a jellyfish bounces off my legs and it's stinging. I head back to the room and the advice is to pee on it. I had just peed in the sea, so I'm wondering if I should ask for pee from one of them. The thought magically musters more pee in my bladder, and I have enough. The jellyfish here are not that bad, and I rest at ease.
We head out to town for dinner, and the center of town feels like Mylapore. There is a Deepotsav, and the Brahmins are out decorating the streets with colourful kolams. Coming from the Agrahara in Mysore, Manju is thrilled at the display of culture. The white people are suitably impressed. Blending in like Waldo is a tribal woman, whose glides thru so light on her feet that I'm fixated on her walk, and she goes undetected - nobody looks up or moves to avoid or let her pass. I'm surrounded by Brahmin uncles at the restaurant, and it feels like Mylapore.
Back at the Cocopelli Surf School, the main guy Sandeep has hired the services of a couple from Bangalore to paint the wall to his home's entrance. The theme he gave them was Waves, and the artists painted for three days. Sandeep tells me that he has a girlfriend who has given birth to their daughter 6 weeks ago in Europe. He tells me how he has a past with so many women, and now he has a daughter and things have changed. Later he sends the picture to his girlfriend, and she is pissed off.
I particularly like the artist's interpretation of the lady's face. The artist is happy with the work, and is shocked when told of The Wife's objections. As I feel a need to contribute, I tell Sandeep that maybe it's the post-partum hormonal rushes. Later with the artists he would repeat this advice, and I feel slightly guilty of being taken too seriously. People advise him to hold his ground with his wife, but ultimately he decides that the painting must go before she arrives. "I don't know why she doesn't trust me bro... after the daughter also..."
I find the use of 'bro' to be really odd and funny. I catch myself slipping into Bro mode, and I tell myself that I'm not that guy who uses 'ji' and 'bro'. Sandeep tells me that I should stay back one more day because a couple of English girls are coming to stay over, and we could party. I laugh.
The next morning I go for a long walk on the beach, and one end of the beach has road-access, so buses of Indians land there early in the morning, post their temple visits.
I see some human feces on the beach as I walk back. I walk into one of the beachside restaurants to feed, and some things don't change, like the terrible overpriced food by the beachside. Soon after I get back to the room, it all comes out, and I'm cleansed, feeling light and ready to go.
I ask Manju if he would like to join us on the beach, and he says 'of course!' Even though he cannot surf until his knee gets better, he is full of enthusiasm to watch me learn to surf. I am totally floored by his enthusiasm. After two hours sitting on the beach with no hat or shades, he has a headache, which didn't prevent him from coming the following morning again.
By 9 we are out on the beach, for surf lessons. Sandeep draws a board on the sand and we practice getting up into surfing stance, as I'm advised on the position of limbs, body and so on. The water is warm, and I'm learning to paddle and it's hard. Sandeep pushes me into a few waves and shouts 'Get up!' whenever he feels appropriate. After a few tries I stand up momentarily, and it continues like that for an hour before I am able to ride a wave for ten seconds, and it's pure elation.
Sandeep is very precise and sharp with his observations and feedback. I really like good teachers, it's a delight to learn from them. There is someone on the shore filming me for the surf school's website, so my baby steps on the surf are captured for posterity.
I go shirtless and the paddling on the board has left my front side bruised. The nipples are tender, the shoulders are tired from the paddling, but I'm happy that no jellyfish found me today. It's the paddling which got to me finally - I couldn't do it anymore, so we call it a day.
We split for lunch as I want to eat Fish Meals and the place has no vegetarian options for Manju. As I plough thru the mountain of rice with many varieties of rava-fried fish, I see an old woman seeking alms. A group of foreigners give her some money and take a picture of her in exchange.
That evening we find our way to a cliff. There is one solitary guy there, and I bet he was looking forward to some alone time on that beautiful cliff when we landed up and unintentionally drove him out. Sunset was beautiful, and Manju said it's perhaps the best he's witnessed so far. There is some Hanuman music blaring from the speakers of a temple which plays the same line on loop for hours. We adjust our position to the far side of the cliff where the sound waves can't reach so well.
Later that night I tell Sandeep that I'm considering staying back for one more day. He sits me down and tells me how it's really good if I stayed back. Normally he takes 3 lessons (for 2000 each) before one can be on their own. He would try to fit all the lessons into Day 2 for me.
In the NBA players often give themselves, or are given, nicknames. Kobe Bryant called himself Black Mamba, Lebron is The King, Paul Pierce was The Truth (one of my least favourites), Kevin Garnett 'The Big Ticket', and so on. Like that, on that evening I felt like I was conferred mine, by Sandeep. He called me a Natural.
Clearly now The Natural cannot decline surf lesson number Two on the next day. This time Manju jumps into the water and his head doesn't ache. I start off feeling like I took a step back on the surf, but slowly I get better, and I'm able to catch waves on my own. Manju is there in the water shouting and cheering as I stand up on the board. He is the best cheerleader, even a cow will stand up on the board if cheered that way. My paddling improved, and it became smooth from then on.
Three hours later I've been thru a few tumbles on the sandy floor and I'm exhausted, bruised and happy. From here on I need a board to practice and learn on my own.
Some nights at Gokarna come with low voltage, and here I thank Madras for my ability to sleep thru fanless nights. Manju, spoilt by Mysore weather, takes the pillow out of the room and sleeps on the floor outside.
The next day we leave at 6:15, and ride along the wide coastal road which would soon get overcrowded. By the time shops opened for breakfast, we were climbing up towards Agumbe.
The last day's ride is usually easier than the rest, because there is a clear and tempting end goal, and one doesn't need to save up any energy. We pass by one view point that Manju mentions casually and asks if I'd like to go, it's only 7 km. I tell him that I've had enough views, and turn down the idea, and I feel bad at dousing his enthusiasm. Later we see a board for Sirimane falls, and it's close to Sringeri. We agree to go here, and I'm mentally preparing to jump into the water to cool off. Since it's so close to Sringeri, there are many fellow tourists. Don't they have any work on a Monday morning? We quickly turn around and head back. Manju is a little disappointed, I tell him that it's the small price to pay to discover nice places, and that we should come back here during the rains when no one wants to be here.
Soon we reach Belur, and we are really tired and our legs stiff. Sitting at the back is not easy over long distances, so we take turns shifting more than usual. Sitting at the back also leaves the mind to dry out there, so all kinds of thoughts come in. There is no real sensory distraction to escape to, and mentally it's a challenging experience - one that I didn't realise while riding solo earlier. A clear and happy mind is needed to enjoy the pillion's seat.
After lots of stops and stretching, we reach Mysore by sunset. We are both happy about the trip, and it's really nice to feel the sense of exploration and learning. Manju is a good travel partner, and I'm lucky to have found him and his high energy enthusiasm.
