A haunting test of character

"That's it! Over there, sitting between those 2 peaks"



She had given herself a day to consider her options. Hanneke had made her decision. She was to join me on the cycle into India! It was an inspired a moment of brilliant audacious spontaneity and one that warmed me no end. I would have a cycle companion! Someone to share in the marvels of seeing the world from a bicycle.

I was stood a top the last pass of the Himalayas. The last peak before the great descent onto the plains of India and Oceans of the Sub continent. It was a finale, this last glimpse at the place I had dreamed of seeing and breathing since leaving London. The Himalaya had shown her self in a panorama greater than all I had ever seen before. Everything stopped. I was motionless. It was a torrent, a flood............a mind saturation as a thousand fragmented thoughts of the Himalayan bicycle ride rushed through my consciousness. I had been up there ! ......... On those peaks ! My heart was illuminated stood by that last pass of the Himalaya. My eyes dewed at the memory of what had been achieved in 2 months of cycling on the highest place on Earth. It was something that felt so great, far greater than all I had done before and was certainly very close to what I thought myself capable of. Would I ever grasp, honestly rationalise those 2 months?






The morning air was crystal clear. The clouds had yet to begin their daily accumulations above these snowy masses and................. it was warm. Just to repeat it was warm! With great relief I could now feel my toes again and even my nails had assured themselves it was now suitably warm enough to begin growth again.

"Yes, I see it! " replied Hanneke

200 miles away to the East lay Everest! 150 miles to our West the peak of Annapurna 1. We were gazing through air so clear, the scene so lucid one yearned to reach out and touch them....just for one last time. Vast, white peaks stretched out in a panorama that dominated hundreds of miles of lithic horizon, mocking us with its scale and silent splendour. It was enchanting and as if they were a master illusionist or alluring mountain temptress all re-collections of coldness and hardships dissolved into her icy white allure. There was singing, a faint echo of a melody drifting on the cool morning breeze. It was real, there really was singing. A group of ladies appeared through the forested slope riding atop a lorry. What magic was this! A melodic and triumphant conclusion to an immense chapter in a cycle trip around the world. I still find it impossible to recollect the gruntings of the lorry and only remember the beautiful happy harmony of those singing ladies framed by my last glimpse of the great wall of the Himalaya.




The difficulties and hurt of its cold had left me. Now only an intoxicating feeling of beauty remained, a beauty that I now realised had engulfed me. No longer would a vision of the Himalaya be an imagined place dreamt of from distant lands but a places that I had felt. It was time for the final farewell to the Himalaya and what more fitting way could there be than to begin the longest descent I had ever had the joy of non-stop freewheeling down. In 6 hours, hundreds of corners were hair-pinned. Beautifully smooth roads snaked above vertigo inducing scenery as the tropical heat of lower altitude began to waft amongst us. We were leaving the mountains and descending to the tropical plains of India! It was a plunging sensation, looking a few meters beyond the road induced a strange Vertical disorientation, how high were we? How high are we?. Valleys appeared as bottomless chasms and apposing valley walls fell endlessly as if descending to the depths of some deeply gouged Crater. Goodness me I had been high!


















I was ready for cycling. The time spent in Kathmandu and Nepal had allowed weight to be regained. The cold of the mountains and layers of clothing had disguised a rather bony me. Only once in the whole Himalayan crossing had I seen my own bodily skin beneath the thick layers of down and wool. The first shower came as quite a shock, I saw me again, or more to the point the lack of me.

Nepal had been beautiful and everything I had needed to fix and mend a rather over exposed weary cyclist (and bicycle). Old friends had so kindly 'stopped by' en route to their own Indian adventure. It was such a privilege and as a second Christmas to see their faces so soon after entering into the folds of Kathmandu luxury. It was a time of reflection, recovery and most of all a time for remembering all the things one could enjoy without the need for a bicycle, without getting frostbite and without the worry of everything I owned freezing solid! .................. I sailed in a lake at the foothills of the colossal Annapurna range, fed my soul with live jazz and gorgeous food. I camped on beautiful white sandy beaches, jumped off a tall bridge with a big rubber band attached to my feet and finally got to appease a great need to kick a football around with other people. It was an impromptu affair where my spectating self could no longer watch the unfolding lake side massacre by the side with am upturned boat as a goal post. I felt nervous on my approach and strangely intimidated, never the less it was a fervent beginning and so nice to be playing sport in a team. As I huffed and puffed through the first ten minutes I fear even the residue of high altitude acclimatisation served little in preventing relegating myself to goal . The only chance of getting a touch of the ball from these speedy young Nepali legs was to pick the little guys off the floor and steal it from under their feet! ( I would be called "naughty boy" for the rest of the match in recognition of cheating ways). I hollered at my 3 man under 12's defense (Obviously no one had a clue what I was saying) with proclamations that they should "mark their man!" or "who's got the right wing!" ....."Come on lads pull yer socks up !" Perhaps a little uncouth as none of them owned any shoes let alone socks. It was a memorable bare footed, cow patted, water buffalo pitch invaded free for all and by the time an electric storm rolled off the Himalayan peaks stopping play I had let in 6 goals and loved every minute of it!. I retreated with a limp and my loyal (patient) defence bid me farewell .............."bye bye 'Naughty boy"




















It would not be the only evening to be illuminated by these heavenly light shows. As the light of early evening hues the world to beautiful oranges and reds, the clouds would silently begin their secret presage gathering. With a congenial contemplative calm the sky would role and fold upon itself. The mountains, those peaks of peaks were pensive, quiet and hidden, curtained by a sobering, hushed aerial mass.



The curtains lifted! A sudden transcendental strobe began the first act in hours of high definition illuminations more spectacular that any show I had ever seen. As if water droplets were impacting on an upturned cosmic pond each drop ignited a monstrous skyward blaze, rippling through the folds of clouds and irradiating the vast nocturnal peaks of snow set on a high definition stage of hundreds of miles wide. Every few seconds lambent tongues of light licked and arced irrepressibly between cloud plumes yet all was calm. A surreal, ethereal peace reigned over these evenings. Under this electrified canopy food was prepared or thoughts considered whilst overhead continual convulsions of light streamed and danced through the evenings sky yet strangely not a single heavenly rumble or skyward murmuring would interrupt these exalted evenings. It was truly wondrous...........we were eating and sleeping under the biggest show on Earth!

In the deserts of Kazakhstan it was partial shock and part disbelief that 2 wheels could bring one so far as to actually sit on a saddle and set eyes upon herds of camels. Now I had reached the Jungles of South Nepal and completely unexpectedly an elephant in all its moving silence plodded past myself and Condor, towering above us softly breathing, its feet padding past almost unheard and its beady littel eyes glancing down at us. Such a belittling yet magical suprise, indeed there would not be a time when gazing upon these squirting, trumpeting creatures that I would not be completely enraptured by their grandeur presence. Of course, wilder elephants were feared greatly and along with earlier sightings of crocodiles and bears, heavy rustlings and grunts heard whilst on 'jungle cycle tracks' provide ample motivations to touring cyclists to peddle a little quicker before the sun sets.














It was on the map. There was the road. Look it leads straight across the border into India! We had chosen a rather more unconventional route across South Nepal and had meandered into a part of the map that showed a track crossing into India. The reality of this crossing was a dry riverbed that lay ahead with not a painted line, barrier, passport official or any other form of customary officialdom in sight.

It was a new country and a new adventure, and it was there, one hundred meters across the sand to other bank. Deliberations over visa exit and entry stamps were had.

"The roads promised to be better in India"

"I am sure a yellow road on the Indian map is much smoother than a yellow road on the Nepal map"

"Its India.....just there!....surely we could .....well you know we could just cros........."

A local police official refused to get the little stamp from his sub ordinate tin box. Despite my cajoling box opening temptations (at one point I even gave him the stamp and put it in his hand!) there would be no official recognition of either our exit out of Nepal or our decision to triumphantly enter India and the Sub Continent. So began our hesitant felonious cross border cycling antics. With a little pushing and heaving the bikes were through the sand. It was official we had finally made our unofficial entry into India!

It felt wonderful, dramatic and so terribly exciting. Once again a border crossing had triggered the excitement of cycling into a new world. A camping, rather camp Indian army Sergeant also refused to bless our passports with his Indian entry stamp and only seemed interested in commentating on my likeness to an Indian movie star and how difficult it was to prevent people smuggling goods into Nepal.

"No one has actually 'said' you cannot enter India"

The decision was made........Onwards into India! It was a fine welcome from an old man and his 2 Ox towing a cart down the track with an ear splittingly loud horn professing to sound like music. A few minutes a later a cycling rickshaw passed, pasted with Bollywood film posters and another horn, sounding this time like what one could only presume to be clips from the advertised film. It was a surreal entry into rural Indian and with a brief spell on asphalt roads we cruised through the shade of trees into the Indian afternoon.








It would prove to be an intense few weeks where two previous visits to this vast land served little in preparing me for an India seen from the saddle of a bicycle.

It so happened there would be another illicit border crossing to redress our questionable legal standing with a return to Nepal at another opportune river crossing. And then finally we found our official 'stamper'... After a complimentary Indian cup of tea and group photo we were marked at last as legitimate Indian cycle tourers ........ A cycling Duo into a new land...........(again)..........

Hanneke had taken to seeing the world by bicycle as if she had arrived from Holland by wheels and peddle strokes and not wings and jet engines. Hills would as ever see me huffing and puffing in Condors overly familiar crawler gear whilst Hanneke, on a cheap bike procured in Kathmandu would be waiting for me at the top glowing with the strains of loaded cycling but very happy (and of course openly ready to share in biscuits, cold drinks and chocolate). It was so very pleasing to once again share thoughts on the world seen from the saddle. We had both expressed our disdain for the ear splitting lorry honkings on the large roads. It had become quite intolerable for both of us. It was a road culture most unsuited to cycle touring. Brewing with confidence from our combined savvy navigational skills it was time to cycle off the edge of the map and take a direct line route, cross country to Calcutta. The map was redundant and folded away quite contrary to our cartographic guide the adventures of India were now to unfold in earnest.















The sun was now rosing into the sky at breathtaking speed. At 9:00 am it appeareed as bright and intense as if midday sun, its heat scorching our water bottles and sweating brows. I was obviously now quite accustomed to knowing the suns whereabouts throughout the day, it had become a comfort to see the Shadow of Condor ahead in the late afternoon or see it below me at midday. Here in the Indian summer I once again found myself delving daily into the depths the odds and sods bag to find the compass in a hope to counter the suns speedy morning climb and overhead all day hoverings in attempt to zig zag us to Calcutta. It was hot. In only a weeks peddling from the last pass of the Himalaya we were immersed in a scorching official Sub continental heat wave. At its cruel calescent height we were frying in an oven that peaked at 50 degrees!. It was a mind boggle .......... As one shaded ones hot head for a mid afternoon rest I was quite bemused at now cycling in a temperature a staggering 90 degrees warmer than the last stint on the saddle in Tibet. Afternoons cycling became a justifiably staggered affair as the villages that had power would be plundered in search of a fridge housing a gelid, giddily received bottle of iced drink that so welcomingly cooled us, inside out.



We had cycled into a very rural India. The roads had ended (along with the manic lorry honkings) as had any real sense of us knowing our true where abouts........ it was great! It was refreshing (and a relief) to feel comfortable, buoyant and at ease with this new, map-less approach to cycling around the world. How marvelously ironic it is not to know where one is yet to never feel lost. Each day with a sun that rose in the west and a compass in hand (to check!) surely one could only steer the correct course. Any notion of being on the wrong road had vanished as had the option to take the wrong turn and for that matter to ask where we were! We could not ask the direction to a place we did not know or expect to reach somewhere (or anywhere) unless we stumbled into it. Towns or places to find water were never missed as we didn't know they were there in the furst place. It was a metaphorically refreshing mind mango juice and brushing aside a few rather frustrating river wadings it was a perfect way to explore a heat waved rural India. Extra water bags were filled (and became horribly warm) and proved essential in stretches that may take us through thorny dry scrub lands or semi arid plains offering no water (or shade from the heat). It was in such a place Condor received a mysterious and heavy blow resulting in a bent frame and paralised rear derailer. No stone left unturned well at least the ones that weren't to hot to pick up! They had been baking in the sun as if potatoes in an oven. With burning hands no amount of frustrated bashing or walloping would fix the broken bits on Condors frame. Oh it was so very hot. Haneke had 3 punctures and a valve that was too short to fix with a cycle pump (a tale to be told another day!). Leaving no option but for us to push the bikes onwards in the hope of finding a road (and some more water). All was well but they were anxious times indeed. With three hours of heavy bike pushing through hot sand and a slightly ruffled optimism lead us to the edge of a scorched, thorny and most unfriendly landscape and to a delicious well of water and track ............with a tractor on it!.




Descending into such villages we were received as if friendly aliens descending from another world .......... in many ways we were. They had certainly never seen a loaded cycle tourist before. Water supplies were replenished from cool wells to the intrigue and amusement of the gathering populous. We entered as 2 very thirsty cyclists and emerged as re-invented 2 wheeled versions of the pied piper of Hamelin. A crush of highly exited children would trail behind us, giggles and screams could be heard to our rear for miles with no way to disuade them from their enthusiasm or convey what a very long walk back home it would be. The blast of a mid day sun did little to slow their giddy intentions to accompany us and not untill a smooth (rare) track lay before us would it allow our cycling selves to out pace there courageous tailings, hopefully not leaving them too far to walk back to their village.




Gathering crowds and enthusiastic enquiries were a now an understood aspect of this great journey around the world. When in good spirits many comically impromptu conversations were to be had at on the road side or at camping spots. A persons smile and persistent open hearted interest so gratefully nourished tired legs and heads and helped immeasurably in reminding one of the importance of trying sharing thoughts with the people around me. This inherently none static life of a touring cyclist does of course regularly keep one on ones toes. Be it the shock of me not being married or my shock that he is about to marry his cousin obscure sign language (and occasional verbal) conversations were something that was now part of my life (on a bicycle). India would be the cause of many mental stumblings, I had perhaps rather foolishly settled on a loose, common ways that people seemed to express themselves around me or amongst themselves. A smile had been a good thing and a wave a friendly gesture everywhere that I had been. A dry river bed border crossing into India upset this contented understanding I had and quite dramatically marked the introduction of some extremely onerous social challenges.





I imagine there to be many papers and discussions on subjects of behavioral anomalies between different cultures, many of these differences are likely to be well known I am sure and (more importantly) easily managed as a quirk of seeing new parts of our world. Other lesser known idiosyncrasies have lent themselves to many hours of pondering (and possibly traveling clichés) on the bike over how cultural behaviour merges with acceptable (or unacceptable) human behaviour and when one should relinquish ones own values or when ones should hold on to them with some imagined notion of a universally correct way to be. Such questions I am sure fill books , suffice to say here that my perceptions on this matter had been flamed under a 50 degree Indian Heat wave. Along with my cindered understanding of the way people could relate to a rather odd looking cyclist it was at times a severe challenge to maintain an open mind and to quell the judgemental thoughts that continually seemed to snapp at ones metaphoric heals.





Deep set static eyes, unperceivable emotions and a radically different sense of how much space one needs to breath and maneuver a bicycle forced a huge mental side step in order to maintain a happy sense of cycling. A few minutes pause for brunch would gridlock a street with human inquisitiveness. It was centre stage at the Globe Theatre for afternoon snacks as the skyline shrank to a small disk silhouetted by a hundred peering heads. A few days of timid "excuse me's" and soft attempts to weave through 30 people to find Condor again begged for a different approach (and a different me), indeed it was now that parts of me chose to show themselves for the first time. If more than a few meters separated Hanneke and I the cavity would flood with curious bodies in an instant. Where as before comfortable gaps, spaces and breathing holes could be created by polite intimations indicating that people should move away slightly, now, in India such none tactile gestures did little to alleviate a stifling crush. All on 'its' own and with the kindest possible intent I was suddenly physically burrowing through crowds of men and children in order to reach water, bicycles or simply to find a place to sit down.



I now boldly (if still a little self consciously) 'herded' the masses to give us room to communicate or simply just to enable us to see each other. It felt very odd but was thankfully accepted with no detectable trace of animosity or for that matter that anything abnormal had hapened at all. Hands would be shaken on departure and the few that had come forward to ask of our countries name would offer a smile even as a little nudge was applied to get Condors wide girth past all the enthusiasm. There would always be a need for tireless (and tiresome) reminders whilst shading for half an hour that we had a sincere need for a little calm. As I imagine the case to be with most people, for someone who finds physical contact as a form of communication rather difficult ot was a relief when at last the stresses of cycling in India began to ease thanks to this new found me. As ever our wonderful ability to adapt to the new had come to my aid, all be it with a little poke in the right place. At 5:30 each morning the shuffles and mumblings of our breakfasting company would be heard and by 6:30 it was loud and big! It was time to unzip the tent and say good morning to our guests. Cooking, tent collapsing, water filtering and the gears and cogs of Condor were so very exciting. Armed only with a still very sleepy intuition as to what people were talking about I would sit surrounded by so many yet feel comlpetely isolated with very little knowing as to what they were saying, why they were laughing and was answer if I gestured to find out. As I cooked breakfast or sipped coffee 15 minutes may pass then suddenly an odd English word may fall from the tangle of Hindu or Bengali confusion like little feeders that enabled me to at least protend to know a little of what all the people were talking about ...................."Arrrrrr cooking system"......."OOooooo Gear system" ........... "London ...... Condor" ................... ". Each day of cycling in India opened ones eyes wider and wider and these morning 'shows' were clearly as eye opening to our visitors as cycling through an emotional re-dressing India was to us. It was difficult yet exactly the reason I was sat on a bicycle seat not a bus seat.

During the oppressive afternoon heat we would pass woman and children laden with towers of bricks resting on their heads. These abrasive towers often doubling the height of the poor child carrying them. Alarming effigies lined the roads peering over labouring villagers smashing big bricks into little bricks. It was a world where 6 year young boys shave 60 year old men, where streets are clogged with refuse and fed to cows. It is a place where a hundred people would gather to watch a flinching English man having his beard cut yet not flinch an inch at the macabre sight of a goats throat being cut. It was a world that made one feel small.














I huffed and puffed with a loaded Condor yet all around me gallant men cycled into the wall of heat on a one geared bicycle quite literally bearing the weight of his whole family! His eldest son sat on the cross bar, his wife gracefully side saddling the rear rack with one arm clutching an umbrella and the other their new born child. Whilst I futuristically levered Condor into crawler gear his children would munch on salted cucumber from the crossbar, his wife would shelter their new born child and all the time he heroically peddled onwards into the inferno. It was a milieu of disjointed abstractions that pushed and prodded ones awareness into a very different place.

As India was so very good at doing I found myself struggling to justify my own internal grumblings at how heavy Condor was or how difficult it felt on some days to keep the wheels turning.










With the added encouragement from all these heavily weighted, one geared heroes (also the name of their bicycles) I continued the saddled journey into the thick air and abstruse mass of India. It was a provocative, indigent land, a place of contradictions and worrisome insights that sometimes left one reaching out in an attempt to find something firm and known to hold onto. Familiar morning camping activities or valued moments of evening contemplations were shredded by its intensity. Despite all the learned patience and understandings of cycling through India, crowding around the tent at times proved very difficult to deal with. If a rather fluid digestive system began to rumble it would be 20 minutes of gesturing, 'herding' and repetitive gesturing of sitting to go to the loo before ones urgent needs could be met. My intentions were clear (for in rural India we all did our ablutions in the same way!) and my wish for a little privacy were clearly understood yet seemed much lower down the pecking order to inquisitiveness or other motivations that lead one to such static reactions. Ones frustrations would do little to help in up stepping the little shuffles that may begin by the encircling throng. Visits were certain to be made by the local village leader or a man of good standing and with the official voice of reason and some translation by a chanced upon school child who could speak some English, the crowd may allow one to continue with a little more space (and relief!)

It was often conveyed to us of their excitement at our arrival and how honoured they were to have us as guests on their land. Although mostly very welcoming the rhetoric of these over populated twilight hours would commonly turn to our impending danger if we should we foolishly continue with our tented intentions. In nearly a year of cycle touring these now familiar condemnations were of course graciously received but ussually countered by attempts to convince the supposed soothsayer of ones capable ability and experience in looking after ones self and to conclude that all would be well (Exit stage and continue as normally as possible). Of course this was India and any initial personal conveyance that all would be well did little in diluting either the massing moonlit crowds or their persistence in continuing with their perilous prophecy. At first we would be deemed terrorists, then once our bikes were displayed for all to see a lighter mood would prevail, it was then the fear that we would be harmed by other terrorists. Poisonous snakes were then most likely added to the list of prophetic endings (slightly more agreeable than the Nepali suggestions of tigers or beers) and for the grand finale of these salubrious requests for us to move on or stay in their house our weary minds were then pulled reluctantly into a cultural surrealism that left one drained of any further rational ability to debate over ones well being. It was the fearful proclamation that there are dangerous ghosts in the trees. For a whole haunted week each evening trees would be pointed at or arms would sweep the air....... "Ghosts!" ......... I am scared of ghosts!

It was the noise of the stove cooking potatoes that muffled the sound of her approach. The white ethereal glow glided into my peripheral vision as if an apparition from the trees. I shouted, I stood, I tripped and screamed. I screamed some more........Hanneke laughed! Laughed I say! The white sareed woman so elegantly dressed all in white showed her face....she was laughing too! With a slightly improved grasp on reality I stirred the potatoes chuckling at the white sareed antics of the woman as she 'floated' away through the moonlit mango trees. Later as energy levels were plummeting from such a hot days cycle the next, less apparitional body of people arrived to express their concerns at our staying outside ...........alas things had become a little more severe than we had imagined. Armed police emerged through the trees followed by the whole village. When the armed prophet police continued a thread of terrorisings and hauntings one begins to loose one footing a little and begins to wonder where that line went that defines how far one can exert ones theatrical confidences before rifles are raised or wrists cuffed.

It was going well! Suddenly a mobile phone was entrusted to me and I was talking to a most diplomatic and well spoken man. And so began a most memorable tete a tete.

"please sir you must do as the sergeant says, it is dangerous for you"

"thank you I understand your concerns but........."

............and so the diplomacy continued. I explained how his country was very nice and how I had camped in mine fields and war zones (things were getting a little desperate you understand) and that India really was a perfectly safe place for us to camp. The melodramatic cogs had whirred into motion...........I continued with a most eloquent explanation of our desire (and of course our need) to sleep under the great Indian tapestry of stars and of how important it was to feel the breeze at night on our faces and hear the talk of the trees (I was getting a little carried away). Quite suddenly the tone of the conversation took a dramatic turn. Six armed police were instructed to hold vigil around our tent till the morning! I vainly attempted to explain my guilt at having so many men having to stay awake all night. We later learned over tea that he simply had to meet a man who wished to sleep under the stars of India. This was then followed by an invitation (not negotiable) to meet with him the next day.

"Thank you so much for your help, may I ask to whom I am speaking?"

"Of course, I am the Regional head of police, see you tomorrow Glen."

He had around 1,500 men under his command and a simple instruction over the phone to his men and a whole village was dispersed and peace at last prevailed around our abode. Our six trustee guardians protecting us from the terrorising ghosts of the night.

In the morning all offerings of tea and food to our gallant protectors were refused but it was smiles and firm, grateful handshakes all round. Accompanied by our personal (rather over weight) cycling police security detail we departed unharmed from our haunted, terrorised camping spot on our way to a formal midday engagement with the star gassing Regional head of police.

It was a comfortable conversation despite feeling at times as though we were formal delegates of some European cycling committee. We were told how his police force were based on the same model as the Irish constabulary and of his visits to both America to undergo rigorous teachings on dealing with global terrorism (which didn't include how to deel with people camping, or cyclists!). His ambitions had changed, he wished to retire from a 17 hour working day and learn the guitar and live his dream of touring India on a Motor bike (we were in good company) The proceedings continued pleasantly till we were informed that the press were now ready to see us. Oh! And so began a few weeks of some rather precarious and at times most comical microphone mischief. In the well dressed garden of his private residency awaited many of the national news services accompanied by their prodding microphones and searching video cameras. With a few words, posed wobbles and pauses down the main driveway we were through the front gates and away. It was farewell to our 4x4 police escort as we left the city limits and cycled into a week of road side microphone intimations and interview requests.

Whilst my cycle companion siested in the shade of a tree I excitedly strolled with picnic of nuts, fruit and water to watch the nearby cricket match. My innocent intentions were noticed. I was escorted en masse to the commentators box (4 bamboo poles and strip of cloth) as official guest of honour and was promptly presented the honourary plastic chair to enjoy the annual match against the two rival teams. Play was stopped, and hundreds of people were silenced. As a hundred silent faces (bats man included) peered toward me and my bag of fruit and nuts, the wafting of the commentators microphone loomed ever closer.

"please sir, speech"........

This was surely beyond the expectations of a touring cyclist. As Hanneke slept I fumbled through what I thought someone may want to hear from an English man watching a cricket game. Rapturous applause ensued marking the continuation of the game......Phew!

Thankfully such odd abstractions from cycling were ussually a little more conventional. As unique as cricket match speeches or TV interviews were the every day communications with the hundreds of cyclists we were sharing the tracks and roads with were equally as boggling and memorable. Sentences would be spoken with remarkable ease lulling one into an ill fated and at time most frustrating pretence that one could reply in English and be understood. I studiously answered all I could yet the answer to any number of questions I was longing to ask would ussually be a polite:

"Yes"

In an attempt to de-cipher this new riddle of 'yes' multiple variations of questions were mentioned to lots of people (if asking directions for example), the more "yes's" an option got would often be the favoured choice or most trusted answer. Another decrypting approach to the "yes" paradox was to ask a question that was known to be wrong as appose to asking the right question that one didn't know! Errrr.....It made perfect sense in a scorching 45 degrees Indian crowd anyway ! Colloquial Parodies of English conversations (circa 1945) would continually pop into existence, at times with tired hot head it was quite flabbergasting yet in good cheer would raise a chuckle and a few minutes of inspired random conversation.

A question may surface from a swelling crowd:

"What is your name sir?" , (I still find it odd to be called sir )

"Glen" I would answer. I woudl then ask,

"What is your name?" .....................................

"Yes sir, over there.", he replied


Or if asking directions one may ask:

"Excuse me, how far is it to Farridpur please?"

"Oh yes sir, definitely……10 o'clock sir."


India provided an unabated pleasant stream of cycling road side hellos where these conversations truly blossomed. There were times of sublime joy as I realised what I was saying was being understood and I could express my self as appose to being expressed 'at'. Other times as a cyclist edged to my side a question would come forth of such a sublime nature I could only humour it further in the hope some sense may prevail as we continued to cycle next to each other. Each day I would chuckle at all the sincere one line greetings people had offered as we passed:

"What is your mission sir?"

"Good day to you Uncle"

"Good day to you Sister! Sir"

"SIR, I love you!"

"Good night, I love you Daddy!" (in the morning),

"Hello sir, why are you so funny?"

A Greeting from an old man on the back of a bicycle: "Hello my dear"

A man ran up a hill to catch me and with a gasp wishes me a,
"Happy Valentine" (in May!)

And to close......... a cycling couple ask:

"Hello, What are you?"




Within a few days of the cricket match the interview requests stopped and unfortunately so did the most enjoyable time with my cycling companion. It was a sad time. Her departure on the train to Calcutta and subsequent flight to Holland left me in a hopelessly melancholy mood. I would slump and sip cool drinks, see something new only to halt my call to Hanneke "Look at that!"............................It was not a nice time to feel lonely amongst so much newness, a feeling I had rarely experienced since leaving London. I was finally plucked quite peculiarly from this unhealthy stupor by a man with half his teeth missing (the ones he did have were bright red!) and an unquenchable enthusiasm to add cheer to all the people that visited him. As I slumped in the shade of his wooden hut he fed me ice cooled drinks. He would not allow my down trodden brow to dissuade him in the slightest from his sagacious duty to lift me from my boggy depression. While our sign language palavers reached there own mystical conclusions his inspired slight of hand and red toothed grin lay before me the most disgusting looking yet delightfully tasting desert I could remember ever tasting. The warm glow of a late afternoon landscape lit me with excitement. I was light again, happy to be on the road, the little man with his interminable enthusiasm would never know the magic he had spun and how sweetly he had deserted (quite literally!) my gloomy spirit and lonely sole. My mind was now quite overcrowded with sugary excitement at what may lay ahead...............The next morning I unfolded the 'out of work' map............That Hindu squiggle on the sign .....Yes!, it definitely matches the squiggle on the map! Confirmation that I was once again enclosed within its griddy confines. By some wonderful cartographic fluke I had re-emerged onto the map and in the right place! To the east was the big dotted line......... the Bangladesh border crossing and it was but a few days cycle away! It was a strangely dislocating feeling to suddenly know where one was.


It was once again possible to know (or worry) if one had taken a wrong turn or to decide in the morning where I would like to be in the evening. I now realised, with map in hand just how much I had been projecting my thoughts further along the road. It was as if the visual cues of a map provided passage to any idle thoughts I had to "know" what lay ahead. I was now most grateful for the cycling time I had had without a map, I would hopefully now temper my misbehaved forward thinkings and feel more confinedent about cycling downtracks that often appealed to me but were not marked on the map.................I did have one last thought on the matter as I cycled toward the Bangladesh border.............Would it be possible to cycle around the world without a map ?

It had been an adventure inside an adventure and Secretly I think I missed it.

I had just left India. Only a few days ago I had imagined myself to be still maplessly entrenched somewhere in deepest India. It felt so sudden. I was in the strip of land that held me in an international mental stasis....no mans land......For the first time since leaving England the pull backwards to the country I had just left was equal to the excitement of the new land that lay ahead. I stepped off Condor. I munched on a banana to give me an unnecessary reason to just stand next to Condor and face India. With such sincere yet brief candor India had shown itself. With a harsh hand I had been nudged to the edge of a very big place and peered into its fathomless depths. It had taken allot out of me, it had taken root and its impressions would continue to grow in me indefinitely. Of course I must continue....India would be here for along time.................I sucked on a sweet, gently untied the last vestiges of India still pulling at me and wobbled over to the border. The broad grinning curly moustacheod customs officer bid me welcome to his country. I was now stamped and legally in Bangladesh!

The short cycle through Bangladesh was one of diluted familiarity. It was India metaphorically tilted by a shift in religion from Hindu to Muslim. I had crossed a boundary but with a limited amount of time to see much of its land I had (possibly wrongly) peddled East directly toward the Capital city. One week later I cycled onto the streets of Dhaka.

It was a return to tiled showers apposed to buckets and mud huts, to china plates apposed to roled up leaves and to the glamour of room service not a petrol stove (all for 5 pounds a night). Despite entering a city in an official state of emergency and then 2 bombs exploding the next day it was a most prodigious finale to a memorably provocative cycle ride in the Subcontinent. Condors wheels rolled into downtown Dhaka on the eve of the one year anniversary of leaving Shepherds Bush Green. I was quite aghast with what to do. I must celebrate! I emerged onto the streets Dhaka and remembered I was in a Muslim capital city, an alcohol free country and it was on the one year anniversary of my great adventure!









I optimistically reasoned that it was the capital city not a small town and in a flash remembered I had skirted past a luxury 5 star hotel (read house of plonk and fine food) en route to my slightly lesser abode earlier that day. A drawing of 5 stars on the back of my hand and a French sounding 'otel (the Yorkshire dialect has not quite taken hold in Bangladesh yet) had the rick shaw driver skimming across town all the way to 5 star decadence. Half an hour later I was sipping a glass of wine that cost the same as I had been spending in 3 days whilst cycling in India! I consulted Condors trip computer over my delicious white plated food extravaganza and sat plump proud to read the digits ......8,5000 miles...Exactly! With a soft, lambent, red wined mind I allowed myself to relax with all that had happened, musing a million melancholy thoughts that whispered into my consciousness, they bubble with excitment then settled, shocked then calmed............ A year ago I had cycled over the edge of the white cliffs of Dover onto a very scary little tight rope, it was hard to balance and stay upright. A thousand insights, and floundering mistakes later the little rope had grown, it was now a huge road, in fact unless I foolishly closed my eyes it would be impossible to fall off!

What a Year! It was a half hour of super expansive, warm, rich thought that was about to get even richer…………………….I was 'presented' my

"Rich double chocolate mousse, fused with Ginger and a twist of mint".

Happy Anniversary Glen and Condor.

--------------------------------------