Day Two

Oh my god. Never before have I known such agony. I vaguely recall using the lavatory during the night and being absolutely certain that I was actually dying. According to Kate, I woke her up because I was wrestling with a chair on the floor of our room at 5am. Highly embarrasing. Feeling like death had been on my balcony the whole night, and could be lurking in any corridor, we haulked ourselves out of bed at a respectable 8.30 am, and went to wake up Tom and Matt. They looked as ill as me. They had also managed only about a half hour of sleep, so we're entirely impressed by my grey, torpid form looming over their beds at such an unsociable hour. However, they were overall in good humour and in the vague hope that breakfast would help soak up some of the toxins which had invaded our bodies, we managed to choke down a couple of rounds of bread and jam, and some OJ. It was no good. We were definitely dying and the only thing to do was go back to bed and hope that death would come silently and painlessly in our sleep. After several hours we arose once again to find that we we were not dead. This was a mixed blessing, because whilst we clung to life, the nausea and brain thunder hung menacingly over us. Still slightly drunk, and feeling only marginally better than Ebola virus victims, we decided that the only logical next step was to claim the keys to our Tuk-Tuks and go for a spin. After an abortive effort to start the vehicle, I decided that I was in no fit state to pilot a vehicle I had no idea how to drive and instead we got a taxi to the local town, Margao, to stock up on various provisions necessary for the oncoming adventure. For me this involved the largest sound system I could afford, and some plastic flower garlands to tape to my rickshaw and maybe some biscuits. I don't think I had anything else on my list. Fortunately, Matt had other ideas and a list of boring yet necessary stuff to get. Our immensely helping taxi driver took us from stall to stall as we picked up tedious practicalities like jerry cans, hoses and funnels so we can put petrol in our vehicles (Yawn), tarpaulins so that all our stuff doesnt get soaked in the inevitable monsoons (double yawn) and rope, so that our bags dont fly off our roof rack as soon as we hit the road (Once again, Yawn). With these trifles attended to and a nagging sense of dissapointment that I had been unable to procure either a truck air horn, or anything inflatable to stick on Alan's roof, I trudged behind 'Practicality' Addis like a sullen schoolboy being dragged around Marks and Spencers by his mother as we headed back to the taxi waiting to take us back to our hotel. After sulking all the way back to the hotel, we busted out another nap before rocking up to the launch party. Here we experienced something that had never occurred to me before, but I will never forget. An Indian singer, segueing from perfect impressions of AC/DC through Bon Jovi through to Shaggy. Incredible, Astonishing, Hilarious and utterly awesome. It seemed like everyone at the party was feeling fragile from the previous night's excesses and were keen to keep it sober ready for the launch the following morning. That meant that we stuck mainly to a delicious chai being prepared by a woman who had been brought in specially for her famous blend. Unfortunately this backfired on all of us as we found ourselves over caffeinated and largely unable to sleep again that night. What sleep we did get was dominated by vivid, terrifying dreams. Thanks Chai lady.

Day One

Well, it has been rather difficult to find the time to write this little blog as we have spent the majority of the time since we started this here rickshaw run on the road in rural places however, I shall now relay the journey to date, so grab yourself a steaming hot cup of masala chai and a samosa, sit back and inhale India's sweet, incensed fragrance as I illuminate you with our glorious tale.

 

**Day 1 - Arrival in India **

 

After the rigmarole of the flights was dealt with, we had arrived at Goa airport ready for the obligatory shafting by the airport taxi company. As we awaited our luggage it became apparent that there were a few other Rickshaw run candidates (Th entirely lovely Curry Favour and Rupert of Rikki Tikki Tuk Tuk) hanging around so we quickly clocked one another and teamed up to get a taxi to our hotel in Colva. They stung us for a hefty 1300 Rupees, which is a shed-load of wedge over here, but as I say, airport taxis are supposed to be a rip, so it's allowable... or at least it would be if they hadn't just charged us the same as we would have paid for two cars for the questionable delight of ramming 7 of us (8 including the driver), into a car built for five. That meant, Kate and I shared the front seat, and I became intimately acquainted with the driver as my leg prevented him from using first and second gears unless he got super friendly, and he was a very friendly sort of guy. If we had known then what we know now, we wouldn't have even raised an eyebrow. After about half an hour of our first taste of Indian Roads, we arrived at our hotel intact although slightly shaken, and in my case, slightly violated. What a sight greeted us as we drove through those gates. A Fleet, nay, a flotilla, of more than sixty gleaming, glistening Autorickshaws, pimped and painted in a magical rainbow of brilliant colours. I immediately espied our valiant little monsters. Resplendent in Black and Red, with the vehicle names Archbishop Desmond Tuk-Tuk and Alan Rickshaw emblazoned across the front and our team logo stamped authoritatively on the engine bay cover at the rear. Leaving all my stuff inside the taxi, I ran to our Rickshaws, arms outstretched like a man greeting his long lost love. I had a little sit in the cockpit of my chosen vehicle (Alan), I caressed it's luxurious grey plastic handlebars and admired the sterling build quality, and the bundle of fine thread which had inexplicably been used to bung a large and mysterious hole in what can only loosely be called 'the dashboard.' I'm not ashamed to admit that I spoke to Alan that day. I wont share what I said, because that is private, words just for Alan and I, but we shared a moment, a special intimate moment, and I knew right away that Alan and I were going to get along. With an affectionate squeeze of the clutch handle, and a loving stroke of the plastic seat cover which would be the closest of companions to my buttocks for the following fortnight, I walked away from Alan and checked in to our room. After a quick refresher we made our way out to locate the other half of The BomBay Team, Matt and Tom, who had arrived the previous day. We embraced and made our way back out to tour the other teams vehicles, fevered activity was afoot within the depths of the rickshaw fleet as teams used the days preceding launch to engage in last minute pimping. Ingenuity and idiosyncracy were the main traits afoot as teams got their pimp on by repainting their three wheeled beasts and affixing a bizarre variety of adornments to their vehicles. Notable mentions go to a lifesize plastic Heron, myriad musical truck airhorns with which to terrify cyclists, an enormous inflatable duck, a mirrorball and a large dayglow yellow plastic buoy with a smiley Acid face drawn on it. Kudos to you all. After some light socialization with other teams amongst the fleet and a silent critique of our compatriots vehicles, we proceeded to the bar for further socialization. Ever keen to sample new and exotic beverages, that was when I discovered Kingfisher. Let's not beat about the bush here. Indian beer is awful and kingfisher reigns supreme as the dirtiest and bizarrely most pervasive of them all. It has a layer of what I understand to be glycerin on the top and leaves an unpleasant greasiness in the mouth. It also takes you down. It takes you down hard. So, of course, being the first night in a foreign country, it seemed churlish to allow simply finding a beverage unpleasant to stop us from consuming it in large quantities and by 5pm (12.30GMT) we were well on the way inebriation. None of us are big drinkers, and none of us think it is big, clever or impressive to get so drunk that you see nothing odd about having an involved conversation with a sleeping dog, but that is exactly what we did. Two infamous spirits were particularly memorable - 'The Haig' which had various connotations regarding human rights abuses, none of which could sufficiently expound the abuse it would lay on our bodies and souls the following day. The other was 'Feni', a local moonshine of unknown alcoholic percentage brewed from cashew nuts. It is pure fire and tastes worse than bigfoot's butthole. The evening ended with a monsoon and more or less everyone removing their shirts, in that wonderful brits abroad tradition, and runnng through the streets in the torrential rain. Sorry guys - We let you down.

An Apology

Matt,

I have a an apology. I'm sorry. I may have gotten a little bit sidetracked from the task at hand by the desire to make jokes, and generally mock you for being a keener. I know I will come to regret this.

When I am kneeling on the floor, weeping, face covered in dust and human excreta, clothes tattered and bloody, ass ragged and raw from a week of explosive diarrhoea and an insufficient supply of wet-wipes and you are standing, lording it over me with your whistle and your string and your perfectly hydrated body, then... then I will know the error of my ways. Then I will know humility.

Until then however, I shall make a concerted effort to think about doing some of the things I should probably have considered thinking about doing time ago, and be thankful that we have a nerd of such coruscating magnificence in our midst. I shall also continue to pour ridicule and scorn upon your every attempt to ensure that we all complete this considerably dangerous endeavour safely and healthily. I am the ying to your yang. The hard Qi, to your soft Qi. The ham to your cheese.

Yours with considerable admiration, appreciation, and a dusting of derision,

Jack

Less than two weeks to go...

... very excited, but totally unprepared. Well, I say totally unprepared, Matt has got everything sorted. Anally so in fact. 'Camel packs', water purification equipment, tool kits, first aid kits, special jungle survival stuff... good god man!

Surely all that is required to tackle what is said to be some of the most challenging geography the world has to offer is a pair of flip flops, a couple of t-shirts, some shorts and a packet of custard creams. No?