India had conspired with our bodies to make sure our stay was a lot longer than originally planned. But even after a total of nearly three months in the country we’d barely begun to explore it properly. It’s so huge and so diverse that we could have spent three years here and still not done it justice. Like a jar of yeast extract, It’s somewhere that seems to provoke either a love or hate reaction and we’ve swung from one emotion to the other so many times. But on balance our experience has been overwhelmingly good.

As with any of the countries we’ve travelled through, it’s the people that make it. Yes, the Himalayas were heart-stoppingly spectacular, the Taj Mahal and Golden Temple were exquisite and North East India has been full of surprises, but our memories will be just as full of the characters we’ve met as the sights we’ve seen.

We’ve loved the charming manners of the children, the clipped and precise ‘Hinglish’ spoken at 10 to the dozen and the ambiguous wobble of the head to answer a question. The industriousness and innovation that is applied to solving a problem, usually using bamboo and string. The devotion and enthusiasm thrown at whichever religious belief they have chosen to follow. But mostly what we’ve loved is the genuine concern for the wellbeing of the foreign traveller and their delight that we’re visiting their corner of the world.

With 1.2 billion of them, it’s almost impossible to get away from the staring crowds which is what puts off a lot of people from coming to India. But from our experience their curiosity is good natured and we never once felt threatened. A smile and a wave is usually returned and after a while they disperse with an endearing farewell cry of ‘Happy Journey!’.

On this trip we crossed 10 states leaving 19 others untouched. We will be back to see some more and hopefully very soon.

20th November – 6th December 2015

Our stay in Silchar extended to 12 nights, a result of three holes in my leg left from the exploding saddle sores and the time taken for them to heal up again. It was a chance for some more new experiences though including an introduction to the horrors of the Indian health service.

Lying face down on a stained bed in the College hospital,  doctor Hailong was asking me ‘Is it paining?’ as he jabbed and snipped and squeezed the sores. I was too busy biting my fist to stop from shouting to be able to answer, the only distraction being the cow grazing on a rubbish pile just outside the rusty, glassless window. We later saw another cow ambling down a corridor on the way to the Emergency Department. My sister knows how hard it is to work for the National Health Service in the UK but here the pressure on the doctors, the lack of facilities and apparent disregard for hygiene is totally beyond our most basic level of expectation. After the last of the white gunge had been extracted we grabbed the prescription and retreat to somewhere more healthy.

At the Don Bosco School we wanted to earn our keep so for several days we toured the classrooms with a slide show and a brief overview of what we’re up to and some of the things we’d seen and done along the way. The children were enthusiastic to the point of being overwhelming at times particularly when it came to collecting our autographs at the end.

Alongside the main school there was also the Don Bosco Technical College, a facility set up to help older students with vocational courses. They have a great program that takes school drop-outs from rural villages and puts them through a three month course learning practical, business and language skills. Then at the end they are posted to a job with all transport and accommodation arranged. That could be to anywhere in India but it’s a chance to escape the otherwise inevitable move into selling crisps and fizzy drinks in a kiosk or working on the land.

At the college we took on the English speaking classes on the basis that we know a bit about speaking  English. It took a day or so before we could be understood, given we have such strange accents compared to their normal teacher, Mr Sylvanas, but we were then able to have some great conversations about our cultural differences. Arranged marriages, the importance of their tribes, their plans and dreams after their studies all made for interesting topics. The best lesson, however, was on the subject of their local food which was superbly illustrated by the range of  dishes brought in by the group of Manipuri girls we were teaching.

By coincidence our teaching turned global as our friend Mr Bisco from The Creative Arts school in Plymouth asked if we could have a Skype conversation with his students. They have been following our journey as part of a travel writing project and wanted to ask a few questions. It was an interesting encounter to compare to speaking with the Indian children but with similar curiosity about Why, Where, When, How Far? Knowing that I have such a critical audience assessing our blog puts the pressure on so I hope I’m doing OK.

I’m not quite convinced that teaching will be a new career move for us but having had a few days trying it out we have a fresh view on how rewarding (and challenging) standing at the front of a classroom can be.

It took longer than we would have liked but after nearly two weeks the healing process was at a stage where I could contemplate sitting on a saddle again. However Father Nelson, the Principal, had one last job for us before we could get back on the road.

I remember school sports day being an afternoon of sack racing, egg and spoon and perhaps a parents race but at Don Bosco they don’t do things by halves. A full week of games and sports had been planned to mark the end of the year taking the form of the inaugural Don Bosco Olympics. The local division of the Assam Rifles had prepared a stadium for it to take place in complete with grand stand for VIP guests, PA system, podium and catering tent. To kick things off there was to be a grand opening ceremony and Father Nelson wanted us to be part of it.

With a small boy perched on the cross bar in front of me and another on the rack on the back we led out the Olympic torch to much cheering and applause from the 1500 children surrounding the track. Before that there had been bagpipers, dancing, martial arts displays and a solemn oath declaring that fair play and good conduct would be observed during the games. All very impressive and comparable to our exploits in the opening ceremony of the London Paralympic Games in 2012.

We could have stayed longer. Our teaching skills could have been improved, I needed to learn all the rules of kabadi, rice and chapati for breakfast had become normal, but the road was calling again. With a goodbye to our new friends I tentatively lowered myself onto the saddle and we span out of Silchar. Just before leaving I told Father Raphael that I would love to show him our city one day but he just smiled and said that he thought that would be impossible. I hope that we can prove him wrong.

Onwards and eastwards Assam gives way to Manipur via a sandy, potholed road and we’re signed and stamped into this new state at a police checkpoint at Jiribam.  Manipur has a heavy military presence due to unrest in the region caused by militant groups and tribal quarrelling as such they like to know who is coming in and out. Unlike some of the other North Eastern states there are now no permits required for us to enter with the controls being actually more difficult for Indian residents from other states.

The flat plains can’t last for ever and after lunch an ominous sign informs us we are climbing into the ‘Hill Zone’. It’s in this zone that we stay for the large part of the 250km into Imphal, the capital of Manipur. Along the way the road weaves up though dense vegetation with steep slopes on either side meaning the tent stays tightly packed into the rear pannier. A hammock would be more useful for this stretch but it’s not something we have. Instead we find ourselves in small villages at the end of each day and in those villages we find people who want to help us. One night in the home of Chief Lettingthang in Old Kaiphundai, another with three sisters and one brother in Lungba (which involved lots of singing and dancing) and a third night with a 7th Day Adventist Pastor in Charoi Tupul. Each of them looking after us with kindness and enthusiasm and enjoying hosting these strange foreigners on their double cycle. Luckily they all also knew to hold back on the king chillis when preparing the food as these little balls of fire seem to be added to just about everything they cook here at breakfast, lunch or dinner.

During the day food is available in ‘Rice Hotels’ and drinks can be found in ‘Tea hotels’. We don’t see anything that looks like a ‘Hotel hotel’ though.

It’s a challenging road, large parts are unpaved, slow going and with lungfuls of dust accompanying the passing trucks. It makes for hot and sweaty work with tiger stripes of grime collecting in the crooks of our elbows. Like Jammu and Kashmir there are soldiers everywhere, often marching down both sides of the road  but they usually smile when we ride past and dip their rifles. One of the checkpoints was manned by Sikhs from Punjab and we get given tea and water while we stop and chat. Further on at yet another army base they up the ante by bringing out sweet jalebis and samosas too. We explain to the beaming officer the route for our trip and he responds by saying “This is very, very…very…MOST!”. Militant highwaymen have been known to operate in this area so the soldiers guard the roads but insist that foreign tourists are not at risk.

After the final 20km climb that is thankfully on smooth tarmac we drop down onto the floor of the Imphal valley and spin into the city. It’s the 4th December, the day before Kirsty’s birthday so we find a smart hotel, indulge ourselves with a proper shower and dine out.

I think we’re both at an age where just to be able to do what we’re doing is enough of a birthday gift, at least that’s what I tell Kirsty when there isn’t a mountain of presents to unwrap in the morning. But as a special treat we stop at the Manjor Mangang MMRC and Unity Park just after leaving Imphal. It’s a strange place with an exhibition on Manipuri life, some small churches and temples, a micro zoo and a dangerous looking playground. The governor comes out for a photo with us perhaps in the hope we’ll add a review of his park to Trip Advisor.

After the flat valley floor it’s back to the hills and we end the afternoon perched high in Bangyong at an Assam Rifles base. We find another touring bike parked up by the roadside and near it Arne is sat, a young Belgian on his way to Singapore. Arne has already been given the green light for us to stay at the base so we begin to settle in. However the commanding officer has a better plan and instructs us to follow one of his soldiers. We’re led a few hundred metres down the road to a large house where the family have agreed to put us up for the night, perhaps under orders from the officer? By chance it’s also the birthday of their son Brooklyn who’s just turned 13.

The birthday celebrations are conducted by the local Baptist Pastor and consist of a prayer meeting with a blessing for Brooklyn and Kirsty. Then fried chicken is handed round in place of the cake that they had forgotten to order. No cake means no singing apparently so we refrain from the usual chorus of Happy Birthday to You. During the prayers it’s interesting to hear the Lamkang language being spoken, native to this small tribe, with it’s high pitched inflections and changes of pace. The pastor, Jhangvei Khaldon Lamkang, explains to us that the families in the tribe are struggling as the land has been over worked so there is far less yield from their crops. Jobs are available in Moreh and Imphal but they are 60km in either direction and require skills that are hard to learn in a remote village. It means that these meetings are quite intense as everyone has a lot to pray for. It shows how important courses like those run at the Don Bosco Technical College really are too.

We have two more climbs before the next town of Moreh and Arne scampers on ahead. The first is long and steady and the second is a 5km steep grind. It’s a strenuous end to India. Moreh is the border town before Myanmar and its significance has increased rapidly amongst cyclists recently.

Until last year there was no open land border between India and Myanmar, this meant that a route like ours across the Indian subcontinent and into South East Asia would have to include a flight. But now, with a bit of effort and some paperwork it’s possible to buy a permit to cross at Moreh. In our case we used a travel agent called Seven Diamonds who charged a fee of $100 each and sent an email to say that it was Ok to cross on a certain date. Some cyclists have speculated that the permit system is an elaborate scam with border guards and agents all collaborating to fleece hapless cycle tourists but we weren’t about to take our chances and risk trying to cross without one. It took two weeks to process so it could be costly in terms of time if we were turned away. For travellers on motor bikes or with a car the costs are huge and have to include an accompanying tour guide for their entire stay in Myanmar so we’re thankful that they are a bit more lenient for humble cyclists.

In Moreh we are flagged down by the owner of the Sangai Lodge who excitedly told us about another cyclist staying in his guest house that we should meet (and of course we should stay there too). We expect to find Arne but instead here we meet Max, an Austrian with a longer bike than ours and a lengthy beard that makes mine look like a goatee (blog: https://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/?o=tS&doc_id=12372&v=3Dw) . He’s ridden a lap of Asia from Korea to Japan, across Siberia, Mongolia, parts of China, Kazachstan and Kyrgystan. Then like us he flew into Delhi rode up to Nepal, across NE India and is now heading through Myanmar to finish the trip in Bangkok.

His ‘rig’ consists of an unusual full suspension bike with a single wheel trailer following behind. He explains that he is now using his lightweight setup as he sent the canoe home after Russia. For the first half of the trip he hauled a folding canoe on the trailer with the intention of combining roads and rivers for variety. But after only using it a couple of times he decided that carrying the extra 30-40kg wasn’t really worth the effort!

Also in the guest house are Morgan and Poreh, two French backpackers and later Jens turns up, a German cyclist on his way to Bangkok from Kathmandu. We’re all set to cross the border into Myanmar in the morning and the excitement about exploring this new country is palpable. As if to signal that it’s the end of the road for us in India we hear that there has been some sort of protest and there is now a blockade on the road to Imphal so we couldn’t go back even if we wanted to. Thank you India, it’s been a Happy Journey.

 

2nd November – 19th November 2015

A small party gathers outside the Elbrus Home Hotel to wave us off. The owner, Khem is joined by a couple of the other staff who have looked after us so well during our stay. Fellow British cyclists, Graham, Frances and Sarah are also keen to see the tandem in operation. A swerve to the left to avoid one of the many potholes then a swerve to the right as a curious scooter comes a bit too close then we’re on the move at long last.

Petrol supplies have been trickling into the country with a large delivery from China helping to get a few more vehicles back on the road so the streets are getting busier again, but it’s still a long way from the gridlock that we were told was more usual.

Before leaving Kathmandu we wanted to pay a visit to a charity on the outskirts of town. I’d met Taranath a few nights before at a talk by Next Generation Nepal about the disturbing child trafficking problems still taking place in Nepal and he’d invited me to see his own work at a refuge on the outskirts of town.

SADLE provides accommodation, medical treatment and teaches skills to people who’ve been cured of, but left disfigured by leprosy. The intricate handicraft items that they are taught how to make are exported and sold, predominantly in Germany but also several other countries in Europe including the UK. The residents seem happy to be in an understanding community and show fantastic dexterity while stitching, printing and weaving. The disease is a big problem in Nepal and this is one of many institutions making an impact working to help look after those who’ve been affected.

Tara is grateful for our interest and we hope that we can promote the cause in some way when we get home. In the meantime you can find out more here.

The campus for SADLE sits on a hill alongside several Buddhist monasteries including Kopan so we walk up to take a closer look.  We’re shown inside by a young Vietnamese monk who has already studied under the Dalai Lama (“He’s such a nice guy”) in Dharamsala and will now stay here for 6 more years. He’s amazed that we’ll be cycling all the way from Kathmandu to his home town of Hanoi.

The back streets of Kathmandu are the worst we’ve seen in any major city ranging from dry and dusty to wet and muddy, rarely with any kind of permanent surface and always with huge holes and rocks. It makes for slow progress all the way to Bhaktapur just 25km away where we stop for the day.

Bhaktapur has retained a lot more of its authenticity than its bigger neighbour. There are fewer modern buildings and the core of the town is a largely traffic free maze of cobbled streets and alleyways. Unfortunately the age of the buildings and the apparent lack of maintenance mean that it suffered badly during the earthquakes. The main Durbar Square is now missing some of its ancient temples and other buildings are lying half collapsed or propped up with bamboo scaffolding. Amazingly, Nyatapolo, the tallest temple in the country survived undamaged and retains its tiered, vegetated set of roofs.

Hindus love ringing bells and make it their priority for first thing in the morning so we’re woken at 5am by the chimes from devotees in the temple adjacent to our window. Out of Bhaktapur we find ourselves on a road amongst rice paddy fields and it’s harvest time. The process is heavily labour intensive so whole villages get involved, first cutting the rice stalks with sickles and laying them in neat lines to dry. Then a group gathers in a circle to thrash off the rice grains by hitting clumps of stalks against an increasing pile on the ground. Finally the chaff is blown off by sifting the grains past an electric fan if they’re lucky otherwise a man wafting a large tray creates the breeze. Our perceived value of the endless servings of rice and dahl just went up a notch or two.

Around lunchtime we stop to investigate a dhaba where a small girl in a tiny wedding dress is celebrating her birthday. Two cyclists pull in next to us and surprise us by saying ‘Hello Kirsty!’. Kirsty had offered advice to Bjorn and Jens (http://www.velofilia.de/en/) in a Facebook group while we were in Kathmandu but we’d not made plans to meet up. By chance they’d caught us up and the tandem gave away our identity.

We ride together for the afternoon with a stop for rice and dahl at the next village then pull up at another dhaba just before a series of hairpins ramps up in front of us. We’re forced to stop even though it’s only 4:30 as it’ll be dark by 5 so that’s a challenge that can wait until the morning.

A large tree in front of the dhaba has a stone platform built around it and the owners are happy for us to set up camp on there before providing us with dinner. We tuck into generous servings of rice and dahl.

We get another early wake up call at 2am, this time a singer who blows a horn between verses and seems to be wondering around the village serenading each house. We snatch a bit more sleep before the sun comes up and then, while packing up we watch the day’s meat supply being prepared. A young buffalo is brutally attacked by a man with a huge knife then the dead animal is covered with straw and set on fire, presumably to remove the hair. It’s a sobering sight to start the day.

With refreshed legs the first climb doesn’t seem too bad. The road surface is lovely and smooth and the gradient is the right side of comfortable. We’re now on the BP Koirala Highway, otherwise known as the Japanese Road due to it’s generous benefactors. Japan funded most of the 20 billion rupees that it cost to build this important link from Kathmandu to the east of the country and also most of the machinery and manpower. It took 20 years to construct and the final stretch was opened in March this year so the tarmac is still fresh.

The bulk of the climbing comes after we’ve been up and down another small hill. We have to winch up 21 hairpins gaining 900m in the process to get over the ridge that marks the edge of the mountainous northern regions of Nepal and the start of the flatter plains to the south.

The Germans are waiting for us at the top alongside several fruit sellers and sweet stalls. Some fresh oranges and a few sugary jalebis are just what we need. The Japanese have done a fantastic job with this road and the way down is a smooth squiggle of bends and curves off the hilltop. We race a tractor along the way and get a good lead until the road goes up again. The driver and his many passengers cheer us as they chug past.

We finish the day in Bardibas and begin to consider accommodation options. Bjorn and Jens tell us they are adept ‘Temple Tourers’ having stayed in numerous religious buildings all across India and Nepal. We set them to task finding somewhere for us all to stay and a few km down the road they come up trumps after we’re directed to a nearby church. Alongside it are a group of buildings that happen to house another refuge for victims of leprosy and the caretaker lets us into the small church hall where he’s happy for us to stay the night. We’re later joined by a local doctor who tells us that the church, refuge and nearby hospital have all been provided by charities in the UK and Ireland. Reinforcing what Tara had told us about the extent of the leprosy problems in Nepal, he tells us that 2 in 10,000 people are affected in this region.

During dinner we watch a chicken suffering a similar fate to the buffalo at the hands of a man with a large knife. We all decide to go for the veg option to accompany our rice and dahl.

Now back on the flat plains we all move quickly in a tight formation of three bikes, sharing the work at the front. It’s a very tricky way to ride on a tandem as there are constant and slight changes in power needed to stay within a few cm of the wheel in front. Kirsty has to be super sensitive of the pressure she can feel me putting through the pedals and ease off if necessary or add more when I call for ‘Power, power!’. We also have the stopping distance of an oil tanker compared to the nimble solo bikes so when we’re sat in second or third place on the line I have to look over the shoulders of the others to anticipate any potential emergency stop situations. In the end it’s actually Bjorn and Jens who need to pay more attention and there are a couple of touches of wheel to pannier after a lapse of concentration, but no harm done.

The land we’re passing through is a huge flood plain for the Koshi River that we cross later in the day. Some French cyclists we’d met earlier had told us to look for freshwater dolphins and we manage to see several playing in the wake off the bridge struts.

The end of the afternoon brings us into a village entirely occupied by Muslims in their characteristic scull caps and long kameez shirts. This is the first Muslim community we’d seen in Nepal and it means it may be hard to find a church here but maybe they’ll let us stay in the mosque? As usual, a knot of people soon forms around us who we greet with a cheerful ‘Assalamu alaikum‘ confusing them into thinking we’re muslim too. When we explain that we’re looking for somewhere to stay, eventually Sahib comes forward and offers his brother’s house. They allow Bjorn and Jens to set up their mats on the porch while Kirsty and I get an outbuilding with a bed. We shower under a cold hand pump with lots of curious faces watching and then with with typical Muslim generosity we’re given a hearty meal of rice and dahl. Meanwhile Sahib’s nephew, Nahan runs a mobile phone repair shop and offers his services to fix our broken camera battery charger.

All the houses in the village are made from straw but look quite new which we later learn is because in 2008 the whole area was swamped when the river burst its banks. Sahib is angry that they received very little support from the government, but the community was strong enough to rebuild everything themselves.

In the morning we’re a bit weary having racked up 150km the day before but it’s the last stretch before the border. The dynamics of the tandem are different to a solo bike so even a slight gradient requires an exponential increase in power meaning we have to stand hard on the pedals to stay with Bjorn and Jens whenever we cross one of the many small river bridges. However with a slight downhill gradient the roles are reversed so we take to the front and make them work hard to stay with us.

After refuelling on chow mein for a change we battle through the last 10km of hectic traffic to the border at Mechinagar. Vehicles are loaded up with containers ready to collect fuel from the Indian side. Some optimistic motorbike passengers have two 20 litre jerry cans in each hand, no doubt forgetting how heavy they will be once they’ve been filled up.

We get stamped out of Nepal then cross a bridge over the river that forms a physical border. On the other side a familiar cocktail of smells and sounds immediately waft over us, the road surface degrades, we’re swamped by people and join the back of a chaotic queue of traffic that appears to be going nowhere. Unmistakably India.

The road out of Panitanki is lined with trucks and fuel tankers, all waiting to deliver goods into Nepal as soon as the Indian government lets them. Some of the drivers have built beds under their trailers and groups gather round fires to cook their dinner.  Many of them will have been here since the crisis started over two months ago and they have no idea how much longer they’ll have to wait. Some of these containers may contain the vital materials that the NGOs and charities in Kathmandu desperately need to build shelters for the earthquake victims. A maddening situation for all concerned that we can only hope gets resolved soon.

The keen eyes of Bjorn and Jens spot a small Hindu temple and after speaking to a few of the locals we’re told it’s Ok for us to stay in there. The temple ‘Grandmother’, responsible for keeping the temple in good order, looks after us by showing us the hand pump for washing and prepares a tasty meal of dahl and rice for us. In return we offer a donation and try to convey our gratitude despite the language barrier.

Jens and Bjorn had warned us that there are no lie-ins in a Hindu temple. At 5am a small group gathers and begin playing drums and cymbals and singing. As well as bells, Hindus love music in the morning. We’re soon up and out.

The line of trucks stretches nose to tail for 5km along the road in the direction of Siliguri It’s a big busy town where we stop for breakfast and catch up on emails at a rare wifi hotspot before pushing on out the other side.

This was a decision point for us as our original plan had been to enter Bangladesh at the border just south of Siliguri. The embassy in Kathmandu had said we couldn’t get a visa at this border point but we’d considered trying anyway just in case as I’d read that Nepalese nationals could get through. However further research into the terrorist incidents that had taken place a few weeks earlier showed us that a Japanese man had been killed in a village in the region just past the border where we had planned to cross. The unlikely chance of getting across and the dangers on the other side seal the deal so reluctantly we decide to leave a visit to Bangladesh for another day.

Instead a different country becomes a possibility. After a night in another temple in Birpara we ride out past the huge tea plantations that the province of Assam is renowned for. Up ahead we can see green hills rising up out of the plains. This is the edge of the small mountain kingdom of Bhutan.

It’s relatively straightforward to visit Bhutan, there are plenty of official tour agencies that will organise the visas, permits, itinerary and accommodation for you, all sanctioned by the Bhutanese government. The snag is that this is the only way you are allowed to visit unless you are from one of the few countries who are allowed to travel independently. The minimum cost is $250 per person per day which is out of reach for most cycle tourists. However we had heard of one plucky Spaniard who calls himself the Biciclown who had managed to persuade the Bhutanese Embassy in Dhaka to give him a visa without needing to join an organised tour. His mission is to spread happiness throughout the world by giving free clown shows wherever he goes which fits nicely with the King of Bhutan’s obsession with the well-being of his people. Their economy isn’t measured in monetary terms but instead they use a measure of GNP – Gross National Happiness. Biciclown wants to make people happy so he was let in.

We had hoped to present a similar case to the embassy in Dhaka, without the clown shows but with an emphasis on the joy people feel when seeing such an unusual bike as ours. We had even asked a family friend of high standing in the UK government to write a letter supporting our cause. However as we were no longer going to Dhaka this scuppered our plan. Embassies never reply to emails and it’s hard to get through to the right person on the phone but we tried both anyway with no success.

In spite of this we approach the small, rural border at Gomttu at speed. There’s no barrier, just a wide, unguarded gateway and we zoom through and turn sharp left. We’re greeted by a picture of the King, the 4th Druk Gyalpo Jigme Singye Wangchuck, on a billboard with the bright yellow and orange flag of Bhutan behind him, an ornate dragon striding across it. Someone shouts hello from the large building behind us and the shouts get increasingly urgent. Suddenly there’s a policeman on a bicycle chasing us so we pull over, smile and greet him with as innocent a look as we can muster. Back at the large building we’re asked to show our passports and visas. “We need a visa? Oh, we didn’t realise, sorry”. It’s all taken good naturedly, the immigration officer even calls his boss to see if a concession can be made after I explain how far we’ve come just to visit their country. But it’s just not possible unless we stump up the huge daily fee, so after a bit more of a chat and buying some Bhutanese currency as a souvenir we’re sent back into India.

Meanwhile Bjorn and Jens had gone on ahead to a different border crossing. Our American friend Chris who we’d met In Dushanbe had told us that he’d managed to get in at Jaigaon which is a much busier crossing used by hundreds of Indian vehicles each day. Indians don’t need visas to get into the border regions of Bhutan.

When we arrive in Jaigaon, we find Jens waiting for us. He and Bjorn have already been through without being challenged. The only issue was that Bjorn was told to wear his helmet by a policeman while they rode around Phuentsholing, the Bhutanese town immediately on the other side of the border.

Sure enough when we all ride back down through the Bhutan Gate no one seems to notice. We’re in!

We drop the bikes at a hotel who ask few questions and are happy to take our Indian Rupees, though 1 Rupee = 1 Bhutanese Ngultrum so the two currencies are interchangeable.

Despite effectively being one town with a fence down the middle, the difference between Jaigaon and Phuentsholing is remarkable. There’s peace and calm, no rattling auto riskshaws and beeping traffic. It’s also much cleaner and tidier with the roads and buildings all in good order and there’s a nice green park in the town centre where people are gathering to help prepare for the upcoming celebrations. It’s the King’s birthday in three days time so flags are being hung above every doorway and there are huge posters of his majesty with inspirational quotes and supportive messages written underneath them. A stage is being built in the park for the cultural events and speeches. It looks like it’s all set to be a great party.

While taking a stroll we meet a group of scouts on their way back from their weekly meeting. “Where’s your tour guide?” asks Jimmy but we manage to skirt round the issue that we’re there illegally and he and his friends offer to show us to the nearby monastery. Bhutan is a Buddhist country so the young monks are all dressed in the familiar deep red robes with shaven heads that we’d seen in Ladakh and Himachal. We join in a football match and find that not only are the monks quicker and more skilful than us but they can also hide the ball by dropping their robes over it. We defend bravely but the final whistle ends the match with a score of 1-0 to the monks.

Jimmy and the scouts show us to their friend’s shop where we’re given some local food. Then we have a more substantial meal back in the town centre including the Bhutanese speciality of Datsi, an interesting combination of cheese and chilies.

Then our Bhutan adventure comes to an end. In the hotel we’re met by the staff who ask to see our visas. Of course we don’t have any so apologetically they tell us we have to leave. With the upcoming birthday celebrations security is being tightened with random police checks on hotels. They would be in trouble if they were found to have let several foreigners stay without visas so for everyone’s sake we reluctantly pack up and ride 500m back through the gateway to a hotel in Jaigaon.

Our snapshot of this little known country was fun while it lasted and I hope one day we can come back for a more legitimate and thorough visit.

After Jaigaon our route takes us back onto the plains of Assam, past the Bhata Tiger Reserve where a wild elephant roams alongside the road. Then onto a partially built dual carriageway that helps us speed into Borobisha.

In India it’s hard to get through a single week without finding yourself in the middle of some kind of festival. The beginning of November is Dewali – the Festival of Light but more accurately it’s as much a festival of sound as well as light. The music being pumped out of a townwide speaker system is deafening and there are strings of firecrackers being let off like gunfire. We can hardly hear the policeman who is trying to direct us to the nearby church but we try to interpret his hand signals as best we can. All along the main streets are huge bamboo gantries with lighting boards that come alive with moving images after dark while dozens of firework displays explode overhead.

We find the church and it’s locked but we’re then led around the corner to a school who a passerby thinks may be able to help. The teacher who opens the gate of the 7th Day Adventist English School is more than happy to welcome us in and we’re quickly installed in the guest bedrooms of the principal’s apartment. Raju Jacob and Mary Josephine run the school for orphans from the region but have received some children from as far away as Kathmandu. All classes are taught in English and the children we meet speak confidently and are wonderfully polite. Very few of them have ever met a European before and it’s great to see how enthusiastic they are to shake our hands and ask us questions. We just feel like ordinary people on bikes but to them we’re celebrities.

In the morning, in return for our room and board, we agree to show the children some photos and talk a bit about our journeys. It’s a shame that my volunteer points to Ukraine when I ask him to show me where England is on a world map but the rest of the presentation seems to go down well. The highlight, however, is seeing their principal riding around the playground on the back of the tandem with a swarm of cheering children chasing after us. After an extensive photoshoot with the staff we’re presented with some polo shirts with the school logo on the front and “Teacher” written across the back. I hadn’t realised teacher training was so easy!

The dual carriageway continues after Borobisha, slicing villages in two in many places. Sometimes a policeman helps people to cross from one side to the other but more often they have to just chance their luck and run for it. A move made more risky when you’ve got a couple of buffalo in tow. The road is only three years old, and there are still plenty of places where there’s work to be done to complete it but Raju Jacob told us it’s already had an impact on the region, allowing rapid expansion of the towns and a much faster supply route for the trucks.

The dusty road takes us over numerous small rivers, some dotted with wide flat bottomed fishing boats to cope with the shallow water. In other places the fishermen just stand up to their waists holding rods and with a clay pot strapped to their chests to put their catch in.

Arriving in Bongaigaon, it’s the Catholic Church that comes to our aid for the evening. At the St Aloysius Seminary, a school for prospective priests, we meet Father Biju Joseph and Father Manu Augustine and after asking if we can pitch our tents outside the nearby cathedral they instead offer us rooms in the boarding house. Over dinner they explain that the training to become a priest is a lengthy process of around 10-15 years. The seminary houses 65 boys who are at college age and will progress from here to study theology at university before further training at a placement in a parish that could be anywhere in India.

In the morning we get to hear the boys singing hymns accompanied by the eclectic combination of an electronic church organ and Indian tabla drums.

After Bongaigaon we get to turn off the busy main road onto a much more pleasant route that brings us to the banks of the Brahmaputra River. One of the largest rivers in the world it takes a 2.5km long bridge to get us across it. Freshwater dolphins occasionally bob to the surface in the murky brown water while a long freight train rumbles along the deck below us.

We’re now venturing deep into the tribal territories of North East India. Tall forests of banana trees surround dusty towns where the sight of four westerners on bikes brings the bustling streets to a standstill. While we tuck into our lunch people jostle to get a better view of us eating, using their camera phones to capture what surely must be some of the dullest videos ever made. A large proportion of the staring crowds chew languidly on the popular betel nut. It seems to numb their senses, their eyes are glazed over and they slur their words. Like their teeth, the streets are stained from the excess of crimson saliva that they constantly have to spit out. It’s a horrible habit and we try to avoid anyone with the tell tale bright red grin.

Our road is now a corridor through the humid jungle. We see a man riding an elephant but he is more amazed to see us than we are to see him. Father Biju Joseph had suggested we aim for Boko where we would find the Don Bosco School, also run by the Catholic Church to see if they can provide a room for the night, which they do. It’s the main night of Dewali and the battle ground of fireworks and bangers rages from early evening to late at night. We wanted to go out and take a closer look but find the gates of the school have been firmly locked. One of the priests explains that it’s too dangerous to go out at night due to the risk of muggers, drunks and stampeding wild elephants. Just last year someone was trampled by a startled animal while on their way home after dark.

The road gets progressively busier as we approach Guwahati, the capital city of Assam Province. We avoid the centre by racing round the ring road, stopping only to visit a Decathlon store, a little slice of neat and ordered European familiarity amongst the Indian chaos.

After Guwahati we leave Assam and enter Meghalaya. A relatively small province that encompasses the hills and high plateau above the Bangladeshi border. The road rises off the flat plains and we let Bjorn and Jens disappear up the hill while we get on with the task in hand at tandem speed. Although there were plenty of churches in Assam, Christianity was still the minority religion with Hindu and tribal beliefs being more common. However the missions had been more successful in the Meghalaya region so Catholicism is the dominant faith. Every village has a church tower peeking over the roof tops and in the town of Namphu we find the St Paul’s Catholic School. Two German students are on a year’s placement here so Bjorn and Jens enjoy a conversation in their native language over a cup of tea while we wait for the Padre.

Meghalaya has three main tribal groups: Kazi, Garo and Jantia, each with it’s own cultural traditions and language. There are also smaller tribes, again with their own language differences with at least 60 identifiable languages being spoken across the province. This is a Kazi area so we use “Khublei” for hello and our favourite phrase for thank you so far: “Khublei Shiboom”. If we were to move a few km along a different road we’d have to learn an entirely different greeting.

After breakfast with Father Jose, one of the nicest and friendliest people we’ve ever met, we’re back into the climb. The soundtrack to accompany our heavy breathing is a shrill, tinitus like tone emanating from the bushes. It sounds like an electrical alarm but is in fact one of the thousands of annoying jungle insects.

The approach to Shillong is predictably busy. Like the heart of an ant hill, everyone seems to be crowding up towards the capital of Meghalaya. The final, steep climb eventually subsides and we get directions to the Don Bosco Technical College where Father Augustine is waiting for us. Father Jose had called to say we were on our way so a room has already been prepared for us to stay in. Just the easy and relaxing arrival we needed after the efforts of the morning.

At the risk of seeming ungrateful we don’t make use of their accommodation that night. Instead we leave the bikes and take a shared taxi down to Cherrapunji, 50km further south. This town claims to be the wettest place on earth with the highest annual rainfall ever recorded. In 1861 26,461mm fell on this plateau.

We go in search of yet another Don Bosco Catholic School but when we find it Father Roy is a bit more suspicious of the four foreign visitors on his doorstep. Without our bikes our plight is much less obvious but after we explain that Fathers Jose and Augustine had sent us he soon welcomes us in and offers some floor space for us to sleep on.

We weren’t in Cherrapunji to enjoy the rainfall, we get enough of that back home, and besides it’s been warm and dry here for weeks. The reason for coming here was to see the famous living tree root bridges in the villages below. On our way to the village of Tyrna we get a view off the plateau to the Bangladeshi plains below. It’s more water than land, a country built around one of the the largest river deltas on the planet and collecting the runoff from the Himalayas, parts of China and most of Northern India. If we’d been down there trying to cross it as planned then a boat would have been more useful than a bicycle.

From Tyrna we set off on foot down a never ending staircase that drops us steeply into the dense undergrowth. On either side of the path enormous spiders hang threateningly from their webs. The largest are about the size of my hand with yellow and black hazard stripes across their backs implying it’s probably best not to get too close.

The first of the root bridges spans a 20m wide, shallow gorge. The aerial roots of the banyan fig trees are initially trained along a bamboo pole and carefully looped and woven together until eventually they take hold on the other side and form a useable structure. It takes around 15 years to get to the stage where someone can walk across but after that the roots continue to grow into the walkway and hand rails, becoming a tangled mass across the gorge so it just gets stronger and stronger. This one is about 200 years old and is as sturdy as iron.

Some more modern steel bridges take us across a wider gorge to see a unique ‘double decker’ root bridge. Also nearly 200 years old these living structures will almost certainly outlast their artificial counterparts. However it’s not a building technique for the the impatient. We see a new bridge in the early stages of being grown but we’ll have to wait at least 10 years before we can come back and walk across it.

While we admire the combined handiwork of man and nature, Jens is tipped off about a pool further up the path and an alternative route back up onto the plateau. 30 minutes later we’re splashing about in one of the most idyllic swim spots any of us has ever seen.

A waterfall cascades down through a cleft in the rock into a crystal clear swimming pool lined with enormous boulders. Vividly colourful butterflies dance across the surface of the water and briefly rest at the edges. We swim round behind the waterfall for a powershower to remember.

Refreshed and invigorated we climb back up to the path and continue on but the trail begins to deteriorate. After another 30 minutes we reach another, enormous waterfall that has come crashing down in stages from high up on the rim of the plateau, 1000m above us. It also marks the end of the path.

We backtrack all the way to the pool and find where we went wrong then climb stairs for another 2 hours. As it begins to get dark a mild sense of panic sets in as I realise there’s a chance we’ll be stuck in a spider infested jungle overnight with no shelter and no light. Just before I begin looking for wood to build a bivouac and light a fire we emerge into the gloom at the top of the plateau. Relief washes over us like the crystal clear waterfalls now far below us.

We catch a lift back to Shillong and finally make use of the room that Father Augustine had prepared for us.

The next day is a much needed rest day. The hike had been more strenuous than we’d expected but there’s also a medical issue that needs addressing. For the past 4 days an uncomfortable sore patch has developed in the high friction area at the top of my left leg that spends its days in contact with the saddle. This got worse to become a welt and then three angry infected boils. The final two days into Shillong would have been more pleasant if I’d filled my shorts with hot coals. I’d had to adopt an awkward side saddle position on the bike which was neither comfortable nor effective for hill climbing but was the only way I could bear to sit on the bike. Common sense would say that I should have stopped and let it calm down a couple of days before Shillong but sense isn’t my strong point. Besides, we had to keep pace with the Germans!

So it’s a visit to the hospital to be swabbed and dressed and prescribed with more antibiotics and pain killers leaving with strict instructions not to ride for 5 days. It’s a shame they didn’t prescribe logic and patience too.

The rest of our Sunday is spent looking at closed up shops and watching parishioners visiting the local church in their finest suits and frocks with bibles tucked under their arms. Turn back the clock 50 years and most British towns would have looked the same in a time when Sunday really was observed as the Sabbath.

Believing that I know best, I ignore the doctor’s advice and decide we should continue when Monday morning arrives. The pills help a little but I still have to perch very awkwardly on the bike, right on the nose of the saddle to make it bearable. Large doses of Ibuprofen get me through the day as we traverse through what claims to be the Scotland of the East. Most likely this title is the result of the amount of rainfall that falls each year but looking at the pine trees, tussocked moorland of thick grasses across the rolling hills it’s easy to imagine we’re North of Hadrian’s Wall. Is that a bag piper we can hear up ahead? No, it’s the whining gearbox of another Tata truck straining up the hill with black smoke belching out of it to fill up our lungs.

After Jowai we take a left turn and the road improves both in the quality of the surface but also with a dramatic reduction in traffic. The sun begins to tuck itself behind the horizon so we ask about sleeping in the next available church. We find it’s not possible without permission from the local tribal chief who’s not there right now so we have to ride on. It may not have helped that we greeted them with the Kazi word ‘Khublei’ but they are actually Pnar and use ‘Hoi’ to say hello.

Our saviours are the police force in the next village of Raliang. Seeing four tired cyclists arrive at their outpost, one with a slight hobble, they offer some floor space in the police station while apologising for the lack of facilities on offer. We take it in turns to brave a cold water bucket shower in one of the policemen’s houses, it comprises just two tiny rooms with a washing area behind a curtain. We’re then driven back up to the dhaba in the main part of the village for dinner before an extensive photoshoot with each and every policeman and then finally being allowed to get some sleep. We’re not the first cyclists to pay them a visit though as a British rider on a fat tyre bike passed through at the beginning of the year. With these encounters as their only contact with Europeans they must think we all ride bikes around the world for a living.

My common sense finally kicks in once we leave Raliang and I vow to stop at the next decent sized town to rest properly and heal up. On the map there appears to be something useful in about 20km so I pray for an easy morning of riding and then being able to put my feet up (and slightly apart). Instead the settlements get more and more basic and the road gets progressively worse. The point on the map we thought was a town turns out to be a collection of huts made from woven sticks and straw with herds of animals and small children patrolling the mud tracks between them. An extraordinary looking place but not somewhere we’d find reliable medical care. The inhabitants stare open mouthed as we trundle past on a road that threatens to loosen every single bolt on the bike. I wince with every bump.

A bridge takes us across a river, past a large dam and back into Assam before we ride up and over a steep hill to arrive at a truck stop for breakfast where we tuck into chana and chipati and chai.

Bjorn and Jens have some distance to cover to be able to get up into the next state of Nagaland then back down to the Myanmar border in time to make their pre-arranged crossing date. There’s no point in us holding them back any longer today so it’s time to part company. It’s been great riding with them for the past 10 days and together we’d got to this point a lot quicker than if we were on our own. But more importantly, their no-budget accommodation approach has re-introduced some of the sense of the adventure that I felt we’d lost before Kathmandu where we were relying on hotels. Having no idea where we were going to stay each night was something that I’d been missing. It’s true that pushing hard for 120km+ each day in the hot, humid conditions had led to my current condition but it was my fault for not taking better care of myself.

With shouts of “auf Wiedersehen”, they speed off in a cloud of dust and we continue on for 15km into Umrongso. Perhaps we lacked the charm of the Germans because there’s no room at the inn when we enquire at the catholic school so instead have to check in to the Lily Inn. Loud music right outside our room is not the relaxing atmosphere we were after but then there’s a knock on the door and three teenagers invite us to join in the birthday party. We’re treated like guests of honour and dance the evening away, much to the amusement of the other adults who aren’t so willing to show us their moves. Outside, fireworks and music signal the start of another Hindu festival while around the corner we peek over a fence to watch the preparations for a wedding that’s due to take place tomorrow. This unassuming town seems to be surprisingly lively tonight and everyone we speak to is thrilled that we’re there to experience it all.

Much as we were warming to Umrongso, it’s still not quite suitable for the extended rest that I need, so very early the next morning the tandem is strapped to the roof of a Sumo 4×4 and we endure the 8 hour drive down to Silchar. We get to experience the awful roads from a bench seat over the stiff back axle and there’s a few times when we wish we had our helmets on after we’re launched into the ceiling.

We knew that there was another Don Bosco School in Silchar and hoped that they could help us out. The mere thought of cycling was just too painful to even contemplate now so we had to walk 4km to get to the school gates, offers of help being handed out by several people along the way. It takes less than a minute for Father Raphael and Brother Reggie to welcome us in and find us a room to stay in. This wonderful institution has come to our rescue yet again which is a relief as looking at the state of my leg with a combination of revulsion and sympathy, Kirsty predicts we might be here for some time.

While riding with Bjorn and Jens it was appropriate that I’d been reading Three Men on the Bummel, Jerome K Jerome’s amusing account of travelling through pre-war Germany on a tandem. His observations regarding the typical German characteristics made me smile as there were more than a few similarities in our riding buddies. The book closes with this paragraph which seems to sum up our journey nicely:

“‘A Bummel’,” I Explained, “I should describe as a a journey, long or short, without an end; the only thing regulating it being the necessity of getting back within a given time to the point from which one started. Sometimes it is through busy streets, and sometimes through the fields and lanes; sometimes we can be spared for a few hours, and sometimes for a few days. But long or short, but here or there, our thoughts are ever on the running of the sand. We nod and smile to many as we pass; with some we stop and talk awhile; and with a few we walk a little way. We have been much interested, and often a little tired. But on the whole we have had a pleasant time, and are sorry when ’tis over.”

Our Bummel is far from over but it’s time to rest awhile.

“Where are you going?”
“Kathmandu!”
“On this bicycle?”
“Yes!”
“I do not think that this is possible.”

For as long as I can remember, almost universally the first question we’ve been asked by the people we encounter on this trip is “Where are you from?”. Admittedly this has varied slightly with the relentless “Atkuda, atkuda?” through Central Asia and “What-is-your-country-sir?”, “Ah-England-is-a-very-fine-country-sir-and-Alistair-Cook-is-very-fine-cricket-player” in India. But the Nepalese seem to be more concerned about looking forward rather than back, and everyone seems keen to know where we are going and not where we’ve come from. Looking to the future is a useful trait for a country that has had a difficult year after the terrible earthquakes in April, now compounded by a further crisis that we were about to arrive right in the middle of. More on that later, first we had to leave India.

10 days of rest in Shimla have brought Kirsty back to a position where she can contemplate riding the bike again. Our prolonged stay has put us on first name terms with the local cafe staff and they tell us they’ll be sorry to see us go (along with the thousands of rupees we’ve spent there). The monkeys see us off too by snatching a bag with our lunch in it right from Kirsty’s hands.

To ease Kirsty’s legs back into cycling mode again without too much of a shock we take the ‘Toy Train’ off the ridge to avoid more difficult mountainous terrain. This picturesque narrow gauge line is a legacy of the British Raj and is one of the world’s classic rail journeys. It winds around the hills through 100 tunnels and over several hundred bridges, stopping at various stations to allow the purchase of samosas and chai due to the lack of a buffet car. We disembark at Kumarhatti and stop there for the night.

Then we’re both back on the bike after 23 days of either 1 or both of us not riding. The day begins with a gentle descent followed by a steady climb. All crew members seem to be functioning correctly and we enjoy some more ups but mostly downs through to mid afternoon. The annoying macaques and curious grey langur monkeys are still in abundance in the trees so we keep our food safely packed away. On the final drop we’re accompanied by a small car with a man hanging out of it to film us.

Then we hit a brutal climb before Nahan to end the day. We’d joked on our way down that the town would be at the top of the steep hill in front of us and sure enough it is. Our hill climbing legs have lost some of their power but we just about manage to winch to the top. There’s a scout jamboree taking place and we catch a few of them playing a furious game of kibadi in front of the Sikh temple.

While refueling in the evening we’re joined briefly by Shibu. He seems a little odd but is keen to show us round so we agree to meet in the morning.
“English people get up very early, yes? Shall I meet you at 5:30?”
“Better make it 8:30, thanks Shibu”.

At the allotted time we venture out and Shibu is already waiting for us, he’d been there since 8. We’re greeted with a big hug as his ” Brother and sister” then he leads us out hand in hand. It’s perfectly normal for men to hold hands in this part of the world and men and boys do it as a sign of friendship just as couples would do in the west. I’m keen to show acceptance of their culture so have no problem when he shifts his arm onto my shoulder.

We walk through the bustling, narrow streets with the typical Indian hive of activity cranking up at the start of a new day. Shibu’s arm drops down and he begins rubbing my back as we walk, but he’s just showing that he wants us to be good friends I suppose. Kirsty isn’t so relaxed when he begins to do the same to her with his hand creeping under the back of her shirt, so we have to draw the line at back massage. This is beyond normal behaviour even in India.

We assumed we were being led to his house but it’s actually a wild goose chase and we zig zag all over town, always “just another 5 minutes” to his home. When we start trudging down the steep hill while he talks about feeding each other apples, spending the rest of the day together and asking us “Do you like fun?” we have to make our apologies and make our escape. The poor chap is clearly upset that we’re leaving but we’re not sure we’d have ever been able to leave if and when we got to his house.

We quickly fetch the bike and with gravity on our side we plummet down the hill laughing about our curious new friend.

Soon we’ve made it to the flat lands at the edge of Himachal Province and pedal alongside water buffalo, scooters and bikes. It’s hot, humid and harder than it should be. The dysentry seems to be making a comeback and sapping the energy out of both of us again. We can’t believe it hasn’t been killed off yet.

By the evening we roll into Paonta Sahib and up to the gates of another Sikh temple, the Gurudwara Paonta Sahib. Like the Golden Temple in Amritsar there is a free hostel here and we’re given a prime riverside room complete with ensuite bathroom (squat toilet and bucket of water for washing). It also comes with 2 lizards that have to be chased for half an hour before they get the message that they’re not welcome and scuttle out the window.

We join the devotees in the temple where the Guru Granth Sahib is being sung. Legend has it that the holy book was written here giving this location special significance as a place of pilgrimage for Sikhs from all over the world.

After the prayers we head to the canteen to sit cross legged on the floor with our serving of chapati and dahl in a tin tray. Sikh hospitality is always tasty.

Next day we keep the pace easy and use rain showers as a good excuse to stop for chai, sweets, then pomelos, a delicious giant citrus fruit that tastes like a sweet pink grapefruit.

By late afternoon we’ve crossed into Utarrakhand Province and arrive in Dehradun. The rain has set in. A scooter pulls alongside and its rider asks us where we’re from in an American accent. A short conversation of explanation as to why we’re on a tandem in the pouring rain in India and we’ve been invited to follow him home. Stephen is from Michigan but his wife, Nalini is Indian so they now live here with their youngest daughter Sabina and son Stephen Jnr. They have built their own house on the edge of the jungle which serves as a wonderful place for us to stay for the night. While being shown where we can sleep Stephen nonchalantly mentions that we shouldn’t go outside after dark on account of the leopards that roam around looking for dinner. We think he’s joking at first but his face says otherwise and he even tells us a story about some people who had been attacked down near the river not long ago. Of course there’s the usual risk of bears, cobras and pythons too. The doors and windows will be firmly locked tonight.

We are served a tasty meal and have an interesting conversation about life in India and its north/south divide. Bizarrely Nalini had read about my ‘Marathon World Record Dressed as a Toilet’ in the Indian Times last year.

Then the topic turns to religion. Stephen is what is usually termed a ‘born again Christian’ having had a real road to Damascus moment that turned him around from being well off the rails to being firmly back on track. His passion for his faith and the effect it’s had on his life is fascinating to hear about.

Our spiritual journey then continues into Haridwar, our destination for the next day and one of the 7 holiest sites for Hindus in India. This town on the banks of the Ganges is supposed to be where drops of Amrit, the elixir of immortality, accidentally spilled over from a pitcher while being carried by the celestial bird Garada. To obtain a long and healthy life I take a holy dip in the river, immersing myself 4 times then nearly getting swept away by the strong current. Garada is already looking after me so I survive.

 

There’s a ceremony each evening that involves lots of fire and singing with a huge crowd gathering to watch. Hundreds of boats made from leaves are filled with flowers and candles before being launched into the river for good luck.

But the celebrations are bigger than usual tonight. By chance we’ve arrived at the culmination of the Ganesh Chaturthi festival, celebrating the birthday of the elephantine god Ganesha. A procession of carnival floats trundle down the street accompanied by energetic drumming, loud music and crowds of dancing revellers being sprayed with coloured powder. Following them is a decorated elephant that takes offerings of money in its trunk and passes it up to the driver. It seems completely unphased by the chaos around it but its glazed eyes suggest this might not be its natural character.

Families bring their idols of Ganesha down to the river and let them float away. It’s said that Ganesha takes all their misfortunes and maladies with him on his journey back to his holy abode on Mt. Kailash.

It’s an exciting, vibrant spectacle that leaves me fired up with adrenaline from all the dancing and with multi-coloured face. Kirsty had her own excitement when a firework landed on the balcony outside our room. It also explains why we’d found it so hard to find a hotel with vacancies. Every 12 years, up to 100 million people descend on Haridwar for the Kumbh Mela pilgrimage. It’s hard to imagine that many people in one place and it may well be too much of an intense experience.

The next three days take us ever eastwards past jungles that are home to elephants and a huge national park that includes the Jim Corbett Tiger Reserve. We pick up more drugs, this time a 10 day course of slightly different antibiotics, antiamaeobas and probiotics on the recommendation of a doctor in Khashipur.

A shortcut takes us alongside a quiet canal with straw hut villages and carts being pulled by water buffalo. The roads vary from smooth asphalt to rocky tracks and at one point another shortcut is completely flooded so we have to turn back to the main road.

Bicycles are increasingly popular while the scooters and motorbikes become a menace. A westerner on a bike is unusual enough but two on a tandem is something they’ve never seen before so they buzz round us with smartphones set to record and we get repeated cries of “please stop! One selfie sir! One selfie, I beg you sir!”. Usually one of the many passengers is on camera duty but the drivers are busy gawping as well and on several occasions we nearly get ridden into. We can’t stop for everyone so they have to settle for an in flight shot.

In Rudripur we find ourselves in a strong Muslim area and after a night in a lizard infested room 101 at the Hotel KK we see crowds of men in long salwah kameez and scull caps off to Friday prayers. The women on the back of the scooters now peer out from under hijabs or the full face covering niqab.

This final stretch before the Nepalese border feels more rundown than most of the regions of India we’ve ridden through so far. Alongside the road huge piles of rubbish are grazed by cattle, pigs, dogs and children. The roadside provisions are sold from basic wooden shacks. Every couple of kilometres a bike mechanic is serving the two wheeled traffic and there are far fewer cars.

Improvements seem to be on the way with a brand new road in construction to replace the pot holed track we’re picking our way over but there’s very little work going on. The Garmin thinks one of the new bridges should be complete and sends us up to a river bank with a few concrete pilings in place but no way of getting across.

At Banbasa we reach the border and a young Nepalese cyclist called Shiria helps escort us across. Indians and Nepalese can cross without any passport control and as tourist traffic is rare at this point we have to seek out the immigration office to get stamped out. While we wait a monkey takes the bananas that we’d carelessly left on the back of the bike. A short ride further and a relaxed official sells us our Nepalese Visas and then we’re sent off into our 32nd country.

We’d been told to expect a change compared to where we’ve come from and the difference is immediately obvious. A wide smooth road stretches out in front of us and motorised traffic is almost non-existent as most people are either on bicycles or walking. It’s such a refreshing change after the bedlam of India. In the first day of riding not a single person asks us for “one selfie”.

Crowds soon gather when we stop though, especially in the small village of Chaumala where sisters Sumdinu and Madu look after us from their parents’ dhaba. Everyone is curious of the ‘Double Cycle’ but friendly and courteous with it. They’re particularly amused when I purchase the traditional Dhaka Topi hat that I’d seen most of the older men wearing and queue up to have their photo taken with us. Someone tells me “You must be the tallest man in Nepal!” which also means that I fit in none of the beds in Nepal and hit my head on every doorway.

We ride on past neat little straw houses, some tree houses, fields of wheat and barley, over pretty rivers and alongside dense forests. Huge bundles of sticks are carried on heads with more awkward loads slung in a basket on their backs. That’s if a bike or donkey isn’t available.

It’s cleaner than India, something that they are very proud of and several people tell us about how dirty their neighbouring country is. It’s the poorest country we’ve visited so far too (Nepal is in the lowest 25% in the world) so there are charity and NGO funded projects in many of the villages. Lots of pictorial signs explain the importance of sanitation and using latrines properly. WaterAid is one such such charity that funds projects here and we’ve been supporting them through various events in the UK for a while. A lot of the improvements that we can see will have been the result of their hard work so it’s fantastic to see what a difference they can make. If you have some spare cash then I’m sure they’d be grateful for a donation at www.wateraid.org.

The forests become humid jungle with the noise of the birds and insects at maximum  volume. Road signs hint at some interesting wildlife lurking in the trees but we fail to spot any tigers, rhinos or armadillos, just a deceased snake in the road. But it puts us off the idea of camping so each evening we search out a cheap hotel and tuck into the national dish of Dahl Baht, a great meal for a cyclist as it comes complete with an endless supply of rice and lentil soup. The heat and humidity makes for another good reason to a find a room so we can douse ourselves in cold water from the ensuite bucket.

After checking into one such hotel in Gorusinge we take to the streets to find some dinner. We’re quickly surrounded by a dozen or so excited children who don’t normally get visitors to their small town. They all attend the nearby English school so enjoy interrogating us to practice their language skills, which are impressively good. They also tell us about how scary it was when the earthquakes hit. Despite being a few hundred km from the eipicentre one boy tells me “the cricket bat was shaking in my hand and I didn’t know what was happening”. Before we manage to break away we promise to ride with Uba, Diya and Pushpa to their school in the morning.

The school has 700 pupils and when we arrive we’re mobbed by every single one of them. It’s utter chaos as we’re dragged through each classroom to say hello, shake lots of small hands and answer questions. The teachers stand back, bemused by it all then invite us into the sanctuary of the staff room. Here they explain that all lessons are taught in English, giving the pupils a good grounding for studying abroad. We’d seen lots of signs advertising colleges in Australia, Canada, Denmark and Japan for courses that just aren’t available in Nepal. Technical subjects like Engineering in particular seem to be the most lacking. Attending an NGO funded school like this will really help the children’s future prospects.

After extracting the bike from the rabble we continue on to Lumbini, the direct opposite of the noise and excitement of the school. We enter this Centre for World Peace, created around the birthplace of Buddha, and find ourselves in an oasis of calm. Many countries have built Buddhist monasteries in their own particular style so riding round them feels a bit like a theme park. There’s ‘Chinese World’, ‘Burma Land’, ‘Cambodia Towers’.

We spend the night in the dorms of the secluded Korean Monastery, tucked away in a forest enclave at the edge of the sanctuary. There are several other tourists enjoying the hospitality of the monks, including Or, an Israeli who is about to embark on a three month meditation retreat. With the prospect of 16 hours a day engrossed in his own contemplation, it’s something that he’s looking forward to with some understandable trepidation.

After our side trip to Lumbini we spin back up to the main highway across flat farm land. The highway is the only major road that crosses Nepal but it’s still relatively quiet. We have discovered that the reason for the lack of traffic is due to blockades at the borders preventing the huge number of trucks that bring imports from India to makeing it across. This includes fuel. Petrol stations are closed with vehicles parked all around them waiting for new supplies. Some enterprising shops are selling petrol from coke bottles at twice the normal price. There seems to be traffic control measures for the lucky few that have vehicles still running so two or three times a day a convoy of buses and trucks passes us before the road returns to peace and quiet.

A dispute over the recently introduced constitution resulted in riots and protests by some ethnic groups that felt excluded. In response, India decided it was too dangerous for its vehicles to enter the country so they have been left standing in sight of Nepal but not able to get in and offload their goods. Essentials like medicines and cooking gas are now in very short supply. In essence the Government are being blackmailed to change the constitution but with both sides refusing to negotiate it’s a stalemate that has led to a national crisis. Good for cycle tourists but terrible for the residents.

The flat plains are receding behind us to be replaced by several sweaty climbs. Nepal is hilly after all but we’d become complacent after several days of easy riding. We’re earning our endless dahl baht now as well as a plateful of sweet orange jalebis and swaari bread for breakfast.

Sometimes it’s the simple moments on the road that make a day memorable and on a rare flat section we’re surrounded by a flock of orange and black butterflies that then glide alongside us. Simple pleasures that keep us smiling.

Not long after there’s less to smile about. Turning onto a smaller road we’re hit with a steep gradient which doesn’t let up after a weary lunch stop. In the afternoon we climb 650m in less than 8km with the limit of our power being touched for most of the way. Part way up we have the conversation about wanting to ride to Kathmandu but being told it wasn’t possible by a passing driver. At the time we’d laughed it off but a few km later we can see their point.

A building claiming to be a hotel not far from what we think is the top turns out to be a fraud without any rooms. They cheerily tell us that it’s only another 10km to go. Only 10km at 15%!

Getting desperate as the light is fading fast we catch sight of a flat piece of earth just off the road and enquire in the building opposite if anyone would mind if we pitched our tent on it. “Why don’t you ride to the top of the hill instead?” we’re told, clearly unaware of our state of exhaustion. After a few phone calls and meeting the owner of the plot of land we’re invited to sleep on the floor of the building instead. It’s a part built cafe with no door but a roof and four walls. There’s a family living there too and after making us some dinner a sheet of corrugated iron is used to block the doorway and we settle down under our quilt. The family push a few benches together and huddle together under a blanket. This appears to be their home as well as their business.

We pay for our night’s lodgings then get going early in the morning. It turns out to only be 2km to the top but it still takes 20 minutes to ride. A bite to eat at one of the three hotels we could have stayed in and then it’s an equally steep descent off the other side. So steep in fact that we have to stop for 10 minutes part way down to let the rims cool off.

The undulating valley road takes us a few km further on before an enormous ridge looms up ahead again. The road is now just as steep as the day before with added rockiness and the top far out of view. Our legs are still recovering from the previous day’s effort but we work away at it for an hour or so getting slower and slower until we stop. Pushing would be even harder so we take stock of the situation and reluctantly flag down a passing Mahindra pick up. The words from the day before are ringing in our ears as we get whisked up the hill in the back of the truck: “You can’t cycle to Kathmandu”.

We jump out after the summit and get our first views of the capital city and the enormous snowy hills forming a backdrop. Somewhere north of here is the highest mountain in the world. Descending past monasteries and hearing drums and cymbals in temples we eventually arrive on the streets of Kathmandu. It’s eerily quiet though and becomes the easiest capital that we’ve had to ride into so far. The fuel crisis means that there are hundreds of vehicles parked up on every road leaving plenty of space for cyclists and the odd scooter.

We find a place to stay and venture out into the tourist district of Thamel, packed with tempting restaurants to eat the tastiest, and admittedly only steak we’ve had in months washed down with ‘Everest’ beer.

There’s some of the usual admin tasks on the agenda in Kathmandu with applications for visas for Banglasdesh, Myanmar and an extension to our Indian visa to sort out. A parcel of parts is also on its way from the UK. It all sounds ominously familiar and we’re under no pretences that any of this will be easy. A rest will probably do us some good though so we settle in and prepare to wait and eat and wait and eat.

There’s always a fine line between keeping the momentum of the trip going to seek out the next chapter of the adventure and knowing when it’s time to stop and rest. Kirsty will tell you that I have no idea where this line is drawn, and she’s probably right.

15th August – 16th September 2015

We return to the saddles on a bright, sunny afternoon, leaving Leh to take on the  ‘highway’ towards Menali. This is another road of some infamy amongst touring cyclists with the promise of high passes, challenging road conditions but the reward of some of the finest scenery the Indian Himalaya has to offer. It was only cleared of snow in early July and will be closed by late October once winter takes hold again.

Our welcome travelling companion Tara is still with us but less welcome are the stomach bugs that refuse to stay away. The rest, food and cocktail of tablets don’t seem to have shifted them completely but with blind hope that they are receding we carry on.

We keep the next two days short, with a visit to the huge Thiksey Monastery on the way to Upshi then camping in a field at Lato. Upshi is an appropriate name as from here the road begins going skywards and continues to do so for 60km. Stopping at Lato helps break the workload up.

As a team we’re all faltering with unexpected altitude headaches (we’re at 4000m), sore knees, sickness and general weariness . One rest day is followed by another when we wake up to heavy and cold rain which would make the rest of the climb unpleasant at best, but more likely very dangerous. While warming up in the nearby guest house we meet a variety of other two wheeled travelers.

Firstly, one half of a Scottish tandem crew (http://www.peggytandem.com), Linda was glad of some company while her husband Jimmy was lying ill next door, another victim to the Indian levels of hygiene. Tandems on this road are incredibly rare so to have two in one place must be a first! Their world tour was prompted by their children having backpacking adventures making them think “Why don’t we do something like that?”.

We also have an unexpected flying visit from Sergi, the Russian we’d met in Dras. Although it’s now midday, the sun has come out and he’s pushing on to the top of the hill having started in Leh that morning. Fast and light still looking to be the sensible option but it’ll still be hard going to make it before dusk.

Two Polish cyclists then arrive. They used to be backpackers but decided to buy second hand bikes in Delhi and headed for the mountains. Cutting your teeth as a cycle tourist on the Leh Menali highway can only be described as incredibly bold but they are coping well and have made quick progress. Their $70 bikes and panniers made from converted school backpacks show that a lack of expensive equipment shouldn’t be a barrier to just getting on with the journey.

After three nights in Lato we wake to sunshine and clear heads so continue on. The road is smooth and steady and up we go. Passing 4500m the speed drops to a crawl but it’s hard to know how much of the difficulty is down to the lack of oxygen and how much is the sickness. Most likely a nasty combination of the two and we take to stopping every 5km for a sit down and a breather.

Above 5000m and the lungs are working hard. There’s a huge snow drift alongside the road then a steep rough section pushes us to the absolute limit. Cycling up here is challenging enough but we also witness a few superhuman runners taking on the La Ultra Marathon. For endurance athletes there’s always something bigger, longer, higher, more difficult but this 330km epic must be hard to beat, let alone complete.

One of the support drivers for the race, Danny is wild with enthusiasm when he sees us inching up the hill and calls for us to stop. He loads us up with Snickers, energy drink, cheese spread and biscuits but we’re too exhausted to show our true level of appreciation.

We turn through one final hairpin and get a view of the stupa and flags that must surely mark the summit. It’s as much as we can do to pedal the last 200m then we’re at the top. We’ve arrived at the Tanglang La which sits at 5328m and a sign proclaims it as the 2nd highest paved road in the world.

The highest is still claimed to be the Kardang La, north of Leh who’s summit sign show it as 5602m. In reality, modern GPS has shown that it’s only 5359m and there are several higher roads in India and Tibet. This doesn’t stop thousands of t-shirts being sold to motorbikers who have ridden to the top to claim their ‘highest road conquered’ accolade.

We’re breathless, dizzy and weak-legged so after stumbling around to take a few photos we wearily swing back onto the bikes and try to get down the mountain again. A rough unpaved road slows down our progress so once it levels off as we arrive at the small encampment of Debring it’s already time for dinner and sleep.

Because this stretch of the road is closed for 8-9 months of the year, the settlements along it are only temporary. They mainly consist of parachute tents housing dhabas that offer basic food and shelter for travellers and truckers. Once the snow starts falling these will all be packed up and shipped out until next summer. The food, music and hospitality are all largely Tibetan while the language is now Ladaki, so we say ‘Julay’ for hello instead of the ‘Salam’ of Urdu speaking Kashmir or ‘Namaste’ for southern Hindu regions. English is still spoken as a common language, after Hindi for all of India though, and we can usually find someone who can just about understand us.

After breaking camp by a mirror smooth lake we’re out into the Morei Plains, a high altitude desert that’s a welcome relief after yesterday’s climb and reminiscent of some of the scenery on the Pamir Highway.

Pang is another temporary village of tents and stone shelters alongside the claimed ‘Highest Army Transition Camp in the World” and a road workers’ settlement.

In the morning we have to push our bikes up the steep bank from the river where we had camped while 30 or so road workers stare at us and ignore my calls asking for their help. After an hour waiting for three pancakes to be made we set off for the next big climb.

Passing through a narrow gorge we then power up a steep hairpin onto a road that is barely more than a ledge carved into the cliff face. Anyone familiar with programmes with titles like “Worlds most Dangerous Roads!” will probably have seen something like this, where the buses are cm away from tumbling over the edge. Overtaking is impossible for most of the way so some luck is required to make it round the blind corners without coming face to face with a speeding tanker.

The rugged climb to the top of the 5077m Lachung La takes us 4 hours to complete but we feel much stronger than we did on the Tanglang La. Once again the body’s ability to adapt to altitude surprises us.

Also surprising is the magnificent view that unfolds as we roll over the top. With everything that we’ve seen so far on this trip I was afraid that some ‘scenery fatigue’ would be creeping in, preventing me from fully enjoying yet another panoramic mountain vista. But the Himalayas are as varied as they are high so each valley and each peak has it’s own characteristic and this one is very special.

From the warm reds and oranges of the Morei Plains we now have cold greys and blues topped with a permanent blanket of white snow. Below us is a vast bowl that we pick our way down into before hauling up the other side onto the modest summit of the Nakee La.

Rolling along for the next 10km it’s hard to keep my eyes on the road as the sheer drop down into the deep valley to our left is so mesmerising. Some stern words from the stoker encourage me to concentrate a bit harder on not getting too close a look and to watch the road ahead.

Then we come to the Gato Loops, 21 hairpins scribbled across the hillside like the calling card of Zorro. With the evening light now reflecting off the rocks around us it’s another wonderful moment that confirms that I’ll never have my fill of mountain scenery. We camp soon after the bottom and spend the evening drinking in our surroundings

After 20km of an undulating road that follows the river valley we pass through tents and huts at Sarchu then battle a head wind in a wide valley while the road begins to edge upwards again. As things begin to get more difficult we meet a small group of supported cyclists who feed us fudge and advise us to stop there for the night as the road ahead deteriorates further. It’s an enticing prospect as there’s a small lake with a grassy ledge alongside but we haven’t got any food for dinner so have to push on.

The road becomes rocky and steep with short sections that require every ounce of power from our legs to launch ourselves up and over the obstacles. We ride up small streams where the melt water is pouring down from the high peaks above us and we’re frequently passed by trucks and tankers who have just about enough room to get by without us having to stop. The tankers are ferrying huge stocks of fuel to supply the remote settlements who will probably be cut off for most of the winter.

But on a perilous corner on the narrowest section a traffic jam forms with vehicles waiting impatiently in both directions and no obvious way to sort out the problem. We push our bikes past and leave them to sort out the mess, expecting to hear the crash of a truck falling off the cliff but thankfully it never comes.

A light snow flurry begins as we approach the last settlement before the top which is now just 200m above us. We decide to stay in a dhaba for the night and hope it’s clearer by the morning. Our shelter is little more than four dry stone walls with a polythene sheet forming the roof but they have plenty of cosy quilts and blankets to keep us warm. I buy some thick and colourful woolen socks just for good measure.

Luckily the morning is clear and the road ahead to the top of the Baralacha La is now visible. It’s only another 5km but continues to be very difficult so we’re glad that we stopped when we did. This is our last major pass on this stretch of road and it’s one of the most beautiful.

We now have a lot of altitude to lose and the smooth road that rolls off the top is inviting us to get down quickly. As we gather pace and drop through a collection of tents that form Zing Zing Bar, round sweeping bends, over bridges, past road workers, the landscape begins to change.

The stark coloured rocks of the high altitude roads are slowly being smothered by vegetation, waterfalls, streams and lakes. Eventually it gives way to a full alpine view with thick pine tree forests and fields of grazing sheep and goats. Although this area is sometimes cut off in winter there are now permanent dwellings and even a proper hotel or two. It feels like we’ve emerged from the wilderness.

A couple of short climbs keep our legs in check and allow the rims to cool down after the lengthy descent, then we arrive in Keylong, our first proper town since Leh which we left 9 days ago. We gorge ourselves on WiFi and curry.

While pushing the bikes through a section of deep sand on a climb after Keylong the next day we meet a French cyclist who gives ominous news of the road ahead. Our plan is to turn off the main highway towards the Spiti Valley but we’re told that the first 60km of this road will be ‘une mare de nuit’. The dusty road we’re on is no dream either as the fine sand is constantly kicked up into our faces by the passing cars and trucks.

The steep valley on either side of us has impossibly perched fields and grazing stock that ought to be secured to stop them sliding down the cliff. After the climb the road rolls nicely on with a few undulations until we reach the base of the final climb of the Leh Menali Highway, the Rohtang La. We have the now familiar sight of the road turning into a rough track and ramping upwards but we get our heads down and begin winching up.

The Rohtang La peaks at 3978m and from the top there’s a 2000m descent down into Menali. We’re only taking on the first 5km of this beast of a climb though and turn off at Gramphoo. This is the beginning of the road towards the Spiti Valley.

After a short way we spot two small tents with two touring bikes parked alongside. They belong to two Englishmen, Mark and John so we ask if we can join their campsite. Although Mark lives in Tokyo and John in Paris they always manage to meet once a year for a 3 week cycling trip in some beautiful parts of the world. We share advice on where they should go next while they in return offload medicines and food supplies that they no longer need. As the night draws in we can see the headlights of trucks and cars slowly crawling up the pass high above us and the clear skies reveal a dazzling display of stars.

In the morning we face the nightmare road and we quickly realise two things: progress is going to be so slow that we’ll never manage the 63km to the Chandra Tal lake that we were aiming for in one day. Secondly, the boulder strewn road is not helping Kirsty’s sensitive stomach as she’s launched off the saddle and bumps back down again every few seconds. She decides to try and get a lift and we’re fortunate that two cars pull over soon after we’ve stopped. To lighten the load we take off the front panniers and rack bag and they are strapped to the roof of the car while Kirsty is wedged into the back seat. I’ll be continuing on the tandem on my own for this section.

Kirsty speeds off in the convoy while Tara and I continue tackling the challenging road. One comment from Himalya by Bike is that “..the road is so bad even the goats won’t walk on it…”. In some parts it’s a boulder field and in others we’re attempting to ride up a flowing river. Calling on skills learnt from my mountain biking days I manage to get through most of it while still on the bike but there are just a few soggy foot moments too when the rocks and water come together to throw me off.

We’re both exhausted by early evening so it’s with a great deal of relief that we arrive in Batal, not only because we can rest our battered bodies but also because we can see that Kirsty has arrived safely and is waiting for us. Her journey was no less eventful as her car had to be pulled out of one of the streams by a 4×4 and then suffered a puncture. We eat plenty then bed down in the stone shelter alongside the dhaba.

In need of a short day we take a detour to Chandra Tal (Moon Lake) and set up camp on a hillside overlooking a number of glaciers tumbling down from high peaks. We share this idyllic spot with just a few horses but it’s hard to fully enjoy the moment. Kirsty has had a rotten couple of days with the sickness returning and compounding her feelings of having had enough of bouncing around on the back of the bike. These roads have been incredibly tough to ride on a double bike but doing it while sick has been even more formidable task.

The priority is for her to get diagnosed and get well while at the same time take a break from cycling.

Kirsty insists that she goes alone to Menali to find a doctor and a hotel and there’s not much time for me to protest before she’s hitched another lift with a family heading in the right direction leaving me and Tara to ride on. We part company for the first time in over a year, aiming to meet up again in Shimla.

In a melancholic mood Tara and I scramble up the Kunzum La and complete the traditional kora circuit of the buddhist stupas at the top. Dropping down into the Spiti Valley is torturously slow but as many other cyclists had told us, the suffering is worth it to experience such a magnificent landscape.

At several points along the road landslides have blocked the way but teams of JCBs seem to always be on hand to get the rocks cleared as quickly as possible so the delays don’t last long.

Pink pebbles line the mountain nalahs

Spiti at last

The Spiti River is like a mass of interconnecting streams, twisting around each other with no defined main channel. Gulleys are lined with pink rocks and enormous scree slopes threaten to form another blockage in the road or bury whole convoys of trucks without a trace.

There are several monasteries and nunneries with many perched high on the mountainside to give inspiration and solitude to the inhabitants’ meditations.

While taking a rest day in Kaza we catch a lift up to Key Gompa and witness the morning prayers. It’s a fascinating experience with rythmic chanting accompanied by the occasional beat of the drum, ringing of bells and blasts from a horn. As it progresses various accessories are added by the monks, from coloured ponchos to conical hats finishing with an elaborate gold fan to form a tiara round their heads. Even some of the monks seem to be finding it hard to keep a straight face when they look at each other.

In Kaza we collect our Inner Line Permits from the well hidden Additional Deputy Commissioner’s office. It costs nothing but allows us to continue on the road ahead that comes very close to the Tibetan border. If we manage to cross the deep gorge, swim the river, evade the Indian army, cross into Tibet, evade the Chinese army and start an uprising then they’ll know who we are.

I also manage to contact Kirsty who is on a course of antiamoebic drugs and beginning to feel better. I buy some of the same as although my bouts of illness haven’t been as severe as Kirsty’s, it does keep coming back in a similar cycle so I’m keen to get rid of it for good too.

After Kaza we spend a night in the dorms of Tabo monastery and join the monks for their morning prayers. It’s not just us that are yawning given the 6am start, some of the younger monks are only 6 years old and struggling to stay awake. Founded in 996 AD this is the oldest continuously serving buddhist monastery in the Himalayas and there are some incredibly vivid murals preserved in the gloomy rooms of the mud-walled buildings.

A rare treat of 30km of paved road takes us to Sumdo, the checkpoint for the Inner Line Permit where we enjoy some samosas in the army canteen. The soldier who looks after us while we eat describes the land 2km to the east as “..Tibet, captured by China..”. The communities on this side of the closed border include families that have been divided by the Chinese occupation. Their relatives are on the other side of the range of mountains right next to us but it’s unlikely they’ll ever be able to cross over to see them ever again.

The road gets worse again, damaged by yet more landslides. There are plenty of men and women kicking stones around in an attempt to improve it but it looks to be a slow process not helped by the fact that they also need to look after their children in what must be one of the most unsuitable workplace creches we’ve ever seen. The average wage for this job is just 300-400 rupees (£3-4) per day.

An arduous climb takes us to the pretty town of Nako which clusters around a manmade lake and is surrounded by fields and orchards. Apart from this oasis the landscape around us is elemental, just rock and water on a scale that is hard to comprehend.

Down from Nako we follow the river again. Through Dubling we pass tin shacks with wood being stockpiled in preparation for trying to survive what must be a very harsh winter. Just after the turn off for Pooh (no bears seen) we’re beckoned into a roadside booth at an army base, expecting a routine passport and permit check but in fact getting a cup of tea and some fresh pears. The soldier explains that it’s just a nice gesture they offer for passing travellers.

We spend the night in ‘The Little Chef’ in Spillow. Sadly they don’t have an Olympic Breakfast but while we eat pirantha and fried eggs in the morning we sit and chat with Karl who we’d crossed paths with a few times over the last two days. He’s travelled through many parts of the world by bike and at the age of 68 is still hungry for more adventures. Provided you still have the desire there’s no reason to stop doing what you love just because you’re not as young as you used to be.

We seem to be on the wrong road when we leave Spillow. Not only is it smooth with asphalt, there are two lanes and a white line painted down the middle. This is the first ‘proper’ road we’ve seen for several hundred km. It lasts for a glorious 20km before the more familiar rocks and sand return.

We leave the ‘Inner Line Permit’ area as the road turns west and away from the Tibetan border. Dropping down further we see more trees, more colour, cows, saris, hear the sound of hacking and spitting and the temperature rises. We’re entering ‘India’ again.

The chocolate brown Sutlej river rages below us, picking up tributaries from the mountains and gathering pace. There are huge hydroelectric plants built into the hillside. 1/4 of India gets its electricity from Himachal Province thanks to water and gravity.

A new power plant is being constructed south of the village of Chilling but drilling for the pipelines last summer caused a landslide that destroyed the main road below. The resulting diversion is still in place and involves an extra 15km and a 600m high steep climb which we take on begrudgingly. On the way up we pass troops of monkeys and verges filled with Marijuana then the small reward is a view back down to the valley below, where we should have been riding.

My front brake cable had snapped while I was trying to tighten it up earlier in the morning, thankfully while stationary and thankfully before the long fast descent into Tapri that we now enjoy.

Finding some WiFi I manage to catch up with Kirsty who is on the decline again and still in Menali. The course of pills had only had a temporary effect and she’s feeling worse than ever. Our rendez-vous in Shimla can’t come soon enough.

We’re in the Kinnaur Valley now which is a road builder’s nightmare. Near vertical cliffs leave no option but to carve a notch in the rock which is our pathway through this stunning valley. Trucks and buses squeeze under the overhanging rock with nothing but a slim armco barrier or the occasional concrete block to catch them if they get too close to the edge.

At Jeori, we decide over an ice cream to hitch a lift up to Sarahan where we stay in the basic dorm of the Hindu Bhimikhali Temple. A snoring Swiss backpacker makes for a restless night’s sleep that is brought to an abrupt end by the morning prayers being broadcast at high volume from 4am. But we’d planned an early start anyway and hit the road at 6:00am as we want to make good progress today.

The morning sunlight creeps down the mountainside as we plunge back to Jeori for a quick breakfast. Then onwards and downwards for most of the morning. The roads are busy with vehicular, pedestrian and bovine traffic and as we pass through each hectic town the utmost concentration is needed to make it through safely.

By lunchtime we’ve covered 70km and stop to refuel and rehydrate. The air is hot, humid and thick with oxygen. We can almost drink the air and both Tara and I feel stronger than ever having been up high for so long.

Which is just as well as the afternoon will be spent climbing up to Narkanda. A winding road for 37km that will take us from 900m back to 2800m. It begins in dense jungle and finishes in fresh pine forests steepening up towards the top with a broken road surface and curious monkeys watching from the branches of trees.

We arrive in the ski station town over 12 hours and 110km after leaving Sarahan at dawn and treat ourselves to a smart hotel and a huge dinner.

It’s then a pleasant ride along an alpine ridge line towards Shimla. Himachal is the fruit basket of India and it’s apple season at the moment. The roads are packed with hundreds of trucks laden with crates of apples picked from the vast orchards that line the slopes below us.

Battling with increasing volumes of traffic we finally arrive in Shimla and make our way up to the town centre on the ridge of a hill. Famous for being the summer capital of India during the British Raj, the entire government used to move from Delhi to this hill station to escape the heat from March to October. It has the feel of an English Spa town with the grand Gaity Theatre, a provincial church and a library that wouldn’t look out of place in Cheltenham.

This is the end of our Himalayan odyssey, since leaving Srinigar we’ve ridden over 1500km and climbed somewhere in the region of 30,000m. We celebrate with the luxuries of pizza and beer while on the streets there are celebrations for Lord Krishna’s birthday.

But the celebrations for us at least are slightly muted as there is still one member of the party missing. Kirsty was not feeling well enough to make the 8 hour journey from Menali so is waiting another day before heading across. It means she misses saying goodbye to Tara who has a flight to catch from Delhi in a couple of days. Tara leaves Shimla in the morning on the tiny ‘Toy Train’ that winds its way down to the plains far below. Her journey now will follow ours in reverse as she flies into Bishkek then takes on the Pamir Highway. After that it’s Cairo to Cape Town early in 2016 (www.followmargopolo.com). Hopefully we’ll ride together again but who knows where or when.

After 10 days apart Kirsty finally arrives by taxi that evening. I’m shocked by how gaunt and frail she looks. I think we both underestimated how serious amoebic dysentery could be and I can only imagine how awful the last week has been for her. She’s on yet another course of drugs prescribed by the doctor in Menali and so far she’s making good progress in that she can walk more than a few steps and eat, more than can be said for a few days ago.

Shimla provides a comfortable place to stay, good places to eat and monkeys for entertainment so we decide to stay for as long as necessary to get Kirsty back up to strength.

As we were warned, India shouldn’t be underestimated. Every day we’ve had moments where we have to stand and stare with a look of total awe at a landscape that verges on the surreal. But with the beauty comes the beast and carrying on such arduous riding while sick has taken a heavy toll. Physically and emotionally drained from the experience I should have recognised that we needed more rest but instead we pushed on. From this there is a lesson I hope to have learnt, particularly for Kirsty’s sake.

 

 

Flying has some advantages as a form of transport over traveling by bike. It’s quicker for one, 100’s of km pass by in minutes and hours instead of days and weeks. It’s certainly less physically demanding with the stairs up to the plane being the hardest climb you’re likely to encounter. The seats are generally more comfortable, it’s unlikely to rain or snow or reach 45 degrees inside the cabin too. Hang on, why are we cycling to New Zealand instead of flying?! Airline food for one. But hopefully the last year’s worth of blogs provides a few more reasons too.

The biggest difference though is the shock of the change. Hopping on a plane at Heathrow and then stepping out in Delhi would take some serious adjustments. At least our flight from Bishkek to Delhi wouldn’t be quite such a severe difference thanks to the gradual move east leading up to it, but we had been warned that India would still be a very new experience. 1.2 billion people, 26 provinces, 22 different languages and 33 million gods (aprox.). Just scraping the surface of this enormous country was going to be an assault on the senses.

28th July to 14th August 2015
Sitting on the floor of Indira Ghandi Airport reassembling the bike understandably draws a small crowd of curious but silent onlookers, something we’ll have to get used to. A brief test ride around the arrivals lounge confirms that everything is intact and fully functional which is always a huge relief.

It’s a 20km ride into the city and we brace ourselves for what we expect to be some of the worst roads on the planet. But for the first 10km or so the only significant event is a pinch puncture on the rear wheel, no doubt caused by a poorly fitted tyre when I pumped it up at the airport.

Yes there are lots of cars, buses, tuktuks, rickshaws, bikes, trucks, cows. Some of them are going the wrong way down the road, all of them are beeping their horns continuously (apart from the cows). Somehow the tandem moves smoothly through the middle of it all with barely a hitch. We get lots of thumbs up and calls of “Double cycle! Very Good!” from the tuktuk drivers.

It’s only when we get to the final 5km or so that the volume of traffic increases ten fold which prompts some risky manoeuvres as people try to squeeze through impossible gaps. Patience is required along with some sudden bursts of pedalling to make progress to our hotel.

Here our thanks go to our generous friends and family as we dip into the hotel voucher that we were given before we left and check into the Hotel Ajanta. Again a crowd quickly forms around the bike while I wait for the staff to work out where they’re going to put it. They find a space in a neighbouring hotel lobby, we dump the bags then explore the streets by foot.

It’s a seething mass of activity everywhere we look. Barbers shave their customers from stools perched on the pavement. A man is working through a huge pile of ironing using an iron filled with hot charcoal. Carts of fruit and veg continuously trundle up and down the road stocking up the small kiosks. Down every alleyway a hundred other people are doing a hundred different things. The noise, smells, colours are all at maximum volume and its exciting and daunting to be in the middle of it all.

Jainist temples sit alongside Hindu temples, Mosques and churches. Whole streets are dedicated to just selling wedding invitations or rice or hinges. Monkeys climb among the lethal looking tangle of electricity cables. I get my ears cleaned by a man in a red hat with a metal stick, all the time he mutters “hard dirty, hard dirty”.

Would a trip to India be complete without a visit to the Taj Mahal? Maybe, but as one of the most recognisable buildings ever built we’re intrigued to see what it is really like up close. 2 hours on an early morning train takes us to Agra where a persuasive tuktuk driver convinces us to follow his recommended itinerary for the day. Instead of going straight to the Main Attraction we instead visit the ‘Baby Taj’ and Agra Fort first, leaving the Taj proper until mid afternoon.

This proves a good tip as there seem to be fewer crowds and we get a much better opportunity to recreate the famous ‘Diana sulking on a bench’ photo. There’s no doubt that this is a magnificent place, ornately decorated with coloured marble shards set against the gleaming white marble walls, it’s hard not to be very, very impressed.

Another two days in Delhi to take in the obligatory free walking tour and we’re ready to leave. Only Delhi isn’t ready to let us go without a little reminder. As well as the busy traffic we’d expected a bout of Delhi Belly while in India, from what we’d read and been told it’s almost unavoidable. Sure enough we both begin to feel some rumblings in the tummy after only a few days in the country and we’re not feeling our best. But we want to get out of this huge and filthy city and head North.

Our next stop is Amritsar, again on an early morning train. We load up with imodium and make the short ride to New Delhi station past dozens of sleeping bodies. They sleep in their rickshaws, tuktuks, on the ironing board, barbers stool, gutters and all along the station platform. In India, If you’re tired just lie down and take a nap, even if you’re in the middle of a central reservation. From the train we see slums built right up to the tracks and families are waking from roof tops and from under corrugated sheeting.

Amritsar is the home of the Golden Temple (Harmandir Sahib), the holiest site for Sikhs and as a religion that welcomes people of all faiths and backgrounds the temple complex includes a free hostel for travellers. As we’re about to check in a bright yellow Thorn touring bike comes round the corner being pushed by Tara from Canada (http://followmargopolo.com). She’s just arrived from Pakistan having been fortunate enough to have ridden from Mongolia down through China and along the Karakorum Highway thanks to a generous 1 year Visa issued in Canada.

The temple itself is a shimmering edifice coated in 750kg of gold in the middle of the ‘tank’ of holy water. Turbans of varying design and elaborateness are on display amongst the crowds with many devotees in full ceremonial dress, complete with swords hanging from their waists. All the time calm music is broadcast around the temple complex which is a recital of the Sri Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikh holy scriptures) being sung by musicians in the centre of the temple. It takes them 2.5 days at 16 hours a day to sing the entire book, then they start all over again.

Overnight we are confident that our bikes will be safe being guarded by a snoozing Sikh lying next to them with his sword still by his side.

Both Kirsty and I are still having tummy trouble and a suspect Lassi disagrees with Tara too so we spend more time than we’d like in the hostel trying not to go too far from the toilet. We do manage to brave the feeding frenzy of the temple canteen a couple of times though. This is the largest free kitchen in the world with up to 100,000 people a day shuffling through the precision conveyor system to receive their Dal, rice, chapati and super sweet masala chai. The sound of clattering metal trays passing through the vast washing up facility is like a rhythmic, deafening percussion orchestra making this the loudest kitchen in the world too.

Amritsar Is only 30km from the Pakistan border. Tensions continue to run high between these neighbours and is symbolised by the famous Wagah border retreat ceremony that takes place every day. On either side of the border gates huge grandstands have been constructed that get filled with baying crowds ready to cheer for their country and verbally crush the enemy that they can see just 100m away. It’s worth the tuktuk ride to get there even with a change of vehicle half way due to a puncture.

At 6pm a man in white carrying a microphone appears and begins whipping the Indian audience into a frenzy. But for every chant of “Hindustan!” There’s a reply from the Pakistani mob. Then the soldiers begin their parade. In formal regalia that includes a fan shaped plume giving the impression of a mating cockerel, the soldiers perform increasingly elaborate goosesteps, high kicks and stand in intimidating stances with downturned thumbs, all aimed at their Pakistani counterparts who do the same in a mirror image of menace. It’s surprisingly camp, highly entertaining and the crowds show their support with rising volume right up until the climax when both sides lower their flags in unison and slam the border gates shut. There’s a good clip from the ceremony when Michael Palin visited during his tour of the Himalaya here: youtu.be/n9y2qtaopbE< /a>

Tara has a similar plan to us and wants to head North. Together we all make an executive decision to take another train to Jammu after Amritsar. Firstly to avoid the hot, humid and dull, flat roads of the Punjab plains that wouldn’t be much fun the way we’re feeling. This also bypasses a town that very recently saw the local police station laid under siege. The unrest with Pakistan extends way beyond the ceremonial strutting and incidents like this are not uncommon along the border region. We’re not too keen to get involved.

As with the train from Delhi we load the bikes onto the luggage car and find our beds for the overnight trip. But before the train departs a policeman storms onto the carriage and demands to see our ticket. I get dragged off the train and there follows a lengthy, and sometimes heated discussion about the fact that we hadn’t booked the bikes and how we should take them out of the, otherwise empty, luggage waggon. I refuse and we reach a stalemate that leaves several hundred people waiting on the train and delayed by 15 minutes. The promise of cash once we reach Jammu eventually resolves the situation and we’re told that next time we really should book the bike in advance. Indians love procedure and beaurocracy.

At Jammu an armed guard is watching over our bikes to ‘keep them safe’ and we hand over the demanded fee of 1000 rupees (£10) ransom to have them released. Then it’s a fond fairwell to Tara as she heads to the bus station for the next leg up to Srinigar while we check into a hotel to allow Kirsty to sleep for the day. While I feel much better the sickness still has a hold on Kirsty so I head off to buy some antibiotics that Tara had recommended.

In an Indian pharmacy, if you know the name of the drug you can go ahead and buy it without a prescription. A system that is not without it’s dangers but very convenient and the course of Ciprofloxalin pills is less than 1/10th the price we would have paid in the UK.

While Kirsty rests and let’s the drugs take effect I pop into the Raghunath Mandir temple that claims to have a representation for all the Hindu gods. With approximately 33 million of them this sounds like it should be quite something to behold but in fact I get to see several thousand pebbles (I didn’t count them) set in cement within a network of different rooms. The main attraction is a huge polished, egg shaped rock, being worshipped as the coloured patterning looks similar to several images of their gods. A bit like seeing an image of Jesus on a piece of toast. I’m invited to pour milk on it then get sprayed with water and given a smear of red paint on my forehead as a blessing.

The rest of Jammu is on strike so most shops are shut. The police and army presence is heavy which may explain why, apart from the closed shutters, there’s no sign of any trouble.

We had planned to begin riding from here to get up to Srinigar in Kashmir but there’s no sign of Kirsty improving enough to be able to ride this difficult road. Instead we opt to take a shared ride in a Jeep to allow a bit more rest time while not eroding the time left on our Visa. This proves a wise decision.

From the safety of the Jeep we see that the road is incredibly busy, hilly and teeming with army vehicles. We later learn that there’s been another incident that day involving a Pakistani insurgent who has been captured further up the road from where we are now. The 7 hour journey takes 11 hours with all the added delays from road blocks.

The final stage of ruceperation takes place on one of Srinigar’s famous house boats parked on Lake Dal. The tradition originates for the days of the British Raj when some of these boats were constructed to overcome a law that prevented the British building on any land in the Kashmiri valey. Some are floating mansions, with huge walnut lined lounges and balconies overlooking the tranquil lake. Plenty more boats arrived to surround the lake and Srinigar became a popular destination for Indians and international travelers.

But the unrest in Kashmir hit the town hard and 7 or 8 years ago it would have been very unsafe to visit, so not many people did. With a bit more stability it looks like things are improving now but there’s still a way to go before they return to the boom times. Google maps are as diplomatic as ever by not denoting the region as either India or Pakistan but many people, including our hosts think Kashmir should be neither and form a completely independent country. India though are keen to keep it as theirs and now have 700,000 military personal stationed in the province making sure it stays that way.

On the lake the shops, taxis and souvenir stalls all operate from shikara boats and roam round the house boats looking for customers. A particularly long one is needed to get our tandem over from the mainlad to our floating accommodation on the good ship ‘The New Beauty’ then back again when we’re ready to leave. From Sikh Amritsar then Hindu Jammu we’re now in Muslim Kashmir and have the joy of being woken at daybreak by the familiar Azan.

By now Tara should be two days ahead of us but just before leaving Srinigar she discovered a crack in one of her rims and has had to take some time to sort out a solution. A nice result of this is that we manage to arrange to meet up with her again so we can all ride together.

 

Kashmir is 80% muslim

First thing in the morning we all roll out of town, Tara’s Thorn now sporting a $10 front wheel in shiny chrome. That wheel is about to be given a very tough time as up ahead lie the Himalayas and some of the most challenging roads in India.

For the next two days we’re climbing with that famous Led Zeppelin rif going through our heads on repeat. We go up gradually at first through a tree lined valley, then after an overnight stop in Sonamarg it gets more serious as we take on the Zoji La Pass. The last 10km of this are rough and steep with a few stream crossings so we’re ready for noodles and chai when we reach the 3500m summit. At the base of the slopes opposite the tented Dhaba (tea house) the remains of a snow field is being used as a venue for a toboggan run. Our legs are too empty to ride down to it but it looks like fun.

A bumpy descent takes us into the second coldest inhabited place on the planet (-60 degC recorded in 1995) for food and sleep. It’s been hot today though. Here we meet up with a Russian cyclist, Sergi, with an enviably lightweight set of kit so that he can move quickly over the rough hills. We look back accusingly at our heavyweight machines for making the riding so difficult for us.

From Dras the road into Kargil is lovely and smooth with some fantastic fast descents. Along the way we pass several long convoys of army trucks and a few checkpoints that don’t bother to stop us. This is all part of the very visible military presence, while the less visible armed soldiers watch us from high on the hillside. We’re also joined for a few km by Zaver, a strong Indian touring cyclist who’s covering 4500km over two months at the age of 59.

After a rough and ready camp site near a river the now unpaved road bumps us up to Mulbech. Here we leave the predominantly Muslim region of Kashmir and enter Budhist Ladakh. To signal this change we see colourful prayer wheels, fluttering prayer flags and a huge carved Maitraya Budha standing tall on a rock face overlooking the road.

Kirsty has been feeling a lot stronger since Srinagar but now it’s my turn to feel under par again so we ascend the next pass, the 3800m Namika La, at a leisurely pace. The road is quiet and there are rumours that there is a road block back at Kargil though we never find out if this is true or why it should be closed. Landslides are common so it’s possible that was a cause, or maybe more military action.

Dropping down a smooth road off the summit we arrive at a river crossing with a small meadow alongside. Kirsty scouts it for camping potential and other than a feisty baby yak that enjoys chasing her back to the bike it looks to be a good place to end the day.

Despite being the highest point on the Srinigar Leh highway, when we reach the Fotula La at 4200m we barely notice the altitude. Our time in Tajikistan and Kyrgystan has set us up for this and it seems our bodies are still well acclimatised. Altitude training will definitely be used before I run another marathon.

Also tackling this climb are a dozen or more riders on a group tour with the aid of a van carrying their kit. Chatting to one of them at the top he tells me he’s from Mumbai and never been to the mountains before, let alone cycled over them. An impressive feat and he was understandably elated to have made it up there.

It’s been great having Tara for company as we get to compare Canadianisms with Alglicisms (“What is or-reg-enno?” “Oh you mean Or-ig-ah-no!”) and having a cyclist in our photos puts the landscape into perspective much better than the back of my head can. There is also the benefit that Tara carries the bible of Himalayan cycling: Himalaya by Bike. This invaluable guidebook written by Laura Stone gives intricate levels of detail for the main routes through these mountains. From which Dhabas to eat in, to road conditions, suggested side trips and the all important elevation profile, it tells you everything you need to know to survive and enjoy the trip. Almost every other cyclist we met was also using it but somehow we had left without a copy so Tara became our tour guide.

One gem of advice from The Bible is to take a turn before the monastery town of Lamayuru and follow a precipitous minor road high above the valley. This takes us through a kaleidescope of rock formations with swirling patterns of purple, orange and red. Below us a lunar landscape of cratered white and cream looks like an enormous brain. Luckily we’ve got the narrow road to ourselves and can’t help riding with open mouths as the unbelievable scenery unfolds in front of us.

Finally we need to drop back down to the main road and lose altitude via the 17 twisting hair pins called the Jalebi Bends. By the end we have a new entry into the top ten of favourite roads to ride.

With the major passes on this stretch now behind us the final 100km into Leh should be relatively straightforward. The Delhi Belly has other ideas though and both Kirsty and I have returned to our weakened state. We split the distance into two days taking our time, but giving our full effort to get over the two 400m climbs that stand in our way before the final slog into Leh itself.

Hotel Kang La provides the ideal resting place for us to recoup some energy and try and get better. The cyclical nature of the illness (3 days bad, 3 days good etc.) suggests a parasite, perhaps Giardia so we dose up on suitable drugs to try and combat it.

Leh is a very popular tourist town and provides a wonderful selection of cafes and restaurants with mouth watering selections of Western, Tibetan and Indian
food that is just the antidote to the omelette and Maggi noodles diet we were on in the mountains. We take great pleasure in sampling most of the menu in most of the restaurants with the momos from the Tibetan Kitchen being a particular highlight. Unfortunately we’re too late to see the Dalhi Lama who gave a sermon on the mountainside just outside Leh two weeks ago.

Being well fed, well rested and generally well is important as the road ahead doesn’t get any easier. We have some even higher passes to climb on the Leh Menali Highway then some notoriously rough roads through the Spitti Valley. There is an airport in Leh so the option to fly out would be tantalisingly easy to take. But the Himalayas are proving addictive and we’re here to ride our bike over them, we just have to hope our bodies are up to the task.