Motorcycle India

Tearing Outta Goa
It was a case of "I need to get the hell outta this place," so I finally managed to rip myself away from Goa. It was on the back of Wayne's 1972 Royal Enfied. He bought the bike a few days ago and decided it was a girl. Followng the first 12 hours of our journey, it became a boy, but then we decided it was a tom-boy, or even better, a bisexual bitch of a bike with balls (or BBOBB - or just Bob - or Bobbella even, depending on the mood of the bike). It was an apocolyptic ride and I broke my ass. We hit the road yesterday morning and covered some 400 km of rural landscape, mountain roads, congested towns, express highways and crazy country roads full of potholes and dust. The traffic was crazy... Wanna see the real India? Then get your ass on the road and feel yourself walking like John Wayne when you stop off for the next chai. Dust is up your nose, in your mouth, in your hair; a thick film over your sunglasses, all over your clothes and over every inch of your bare flesh.

Bikin' it
Skimmed precariously over narrow bridge, rocks and river one side and 50 km convoy of trucks the other. Felt like a never-ending road-trip dominated by these metal monsters from hell. I lit a cigarette to relieve the stress and we laughed at the madness. When someone pulls out inches in front of you, or charges at you full throttle on the wrong side of the road, or decides to take up a comfortable high-speed place in your blind spot, or when one fat truck overtakes another and is heading straight at you along a huge bend - you realise you can't lose the plot about such trivial matters because this is India. Forget road manners because here you charge ahead with zero hesitation and a tinge of aggression. In other words, when in India, do as the Indians do. Run with the craziness, accept it for what it is and laugh about it. There exists a synchronicity in the chaos, but then there are times that it's so insane, it's funny.

Connecting to the spirit of Indian people
Indians smile from the heart. Villagers, townies frantically signal the thumbs up sign as you speed past those in throes of daily Indian life in bazaars, cities, and rural farmland areas. These are people you will never see again, but even during that split second of time that you do see them, you feel a fleeting connection that lights you up inside. I felt the buzz of life on the back of the bike and smelt the goodness of the Indian spirit, Indian land, Indian people. It was nice and yes, I'm stoned right now...!

Fifteen hours later...
Fifteen hours later... Hampi in the state of Karnataka has a peculiar landscape. Looking at it from the other side of the river that we crossed, it appears as something from the age of the ancient Mayans. Surreal Dali-like rock structures also remind me of the spirit of ancient Greece. Ancient temples and paddy fields abound. That's all I can say for now as I just got here. We wanted to stay on the other side of the river and the locals helped us get the beast of a bike across on a boat, so the other thing I can say is that once again, the people have been amazing. Found out the petrol in this town sucks and has already crippled four Enfields so we need to ride 10km to the nearest town for better quality juice. Also found a way of getting to our side of town without crossing the river. For obvious reasons, the locals refrain from divulging this information to tourists. So it's all cool and we are enjoying staying in the Brixon side of town this side of the river. Om Shanti Guesthouse is sweet and comprises the outbuildings of a family home, complete with rooster, chickens, a herd of goats, a cow and two baby goats that were born just today. It's real Indian living in a room with two mattresses, a make-shift ceiling, a light switch and a mosquito net. Great food and fresh fruit juice also served by the lovely family. Not bad at 50 rupees a night. It's been a long couple of days. Time to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....