1st Week of Driving

Firstly I would like to apologise for a blatant lie in the last blog: that we would get on the internet everyday and update the blog. Unfortunately events and circumstances have prevented us from reaching anything resembling a computer for the past week. I think that the last blog ended with the news that we had two rickshaws, so this will lead on from there. The Second rickshaw has proven, in retrospect, to be a trip-maker as it has allowed us to go off by ourselves and still have a second rickshaw if mechanical problems struck and, as people were delighted to point out before we left, it would have been incredibly uncomfortable with four in one rickshaw. The rickshaw was completely blue when we took ownership of it, so we decided to set about painting it. Over dinner we discussed themes for the rickshaw, such as Mr Men, Jungle Book, Wallace and Gromit and the like, before settling for a Mariokart theme. With Rob and George painting the India flag on upside down and James painting a few straight(ish) lines before going off to try and play in the inaugural football match, there is no doubt that the success of the paintjob is all down to Gabs. He did a fantastic job and it still looks great, albeit a tad dirty by now.After a day spent painting the rickshaw and a night (for one of us anyway) wondering what the hell we had got ourselves into, we set off at 12pm on the Sunday. Only after, however, we had a full-English breakfast at the local English-owned bar. The start was a parade of colours with a few film crews knocking around and, after fifty metres, we realised we had no idea whether we should turn left or right out of Colva... Luckily we were convoying with another team, Rickshaw Without a Cause, who had a bit more of an idea and got us onto the highway. Now, after mentioning the highway for the first time, it is probably best to clarify what is meant by ‘highway.’ Indian highways exist on the map. They also, occasionally, exist for 10km stretches. However, most of the time a highway consists of something resembling a cross between a country drive and the fields surrounding it, livestock included. Cows, as seems only sensible, like to have a wander onto the highways, accompanied by their invariably old and wizened herders. Tractors, usually towing swinging logs, are not infrequent, although the most common vehicle is certainly your standard 700 tonne, 20km/h, driven-by-a-4-foot-tall-drunken-lunatic, fantastically decked out MASSIVE TRUCK. You will find it hard to believe that we comfortably overtake more vehicles than overtake us. And we have a top speed of 60km.Back to the chronological sequence: the first day was pretty unspectacular and we ended up in a motel (an exceedingly lucky one we were later to realise) at about 6:30. For those with a map we ended up about 50km short of Ratnagiri. The first day, though, did give us a look at each others driving styles: George, as was predictable, loves the long, slow, steady drive up the highway. Rob is pretty similar, and he has even described himself as a ‘safe, consistent driver- pretty unspectacular really.’  Probably the most exciting thing is his penchant for leaving the indicator on. James and Gabs, however, are rather different beasts. They have both got into good Indian habits: probably because they are both so stunningly under-qualified to be driving these things. Gabs’ observation leaves much to be desired, although his ability to judge over-taking manouvres to the inch is astonishing. He also rather enjoys driving with the handbrake on. Gabs’s stamina, as was again predictable, is minimal. James suffers from severe bouts of road-rage, using his middle finger as much as he does the brake, although he is slightly perplexed that whenever he swears at a driver they smile back and give him a wave. He has also perfected the arts of under-taking and stalling.The next day was the first of our now-customary 5:30 get-ups (with seven o’clock lights out), with James and George proving particularly difficult to get out of bed. This day was not to prove quite as eventless as the first, mainly due to the fact that we had set an unsuspecting route over the Western Ghats (Ghat meaning Mountain/ Massive Hill). There were some spectacular views, some very slow driving, lots of rain, a bit of sick, an awful hotel and, more worryingly for it was only our second day, a broken rickshaw. It was our second rickshaw, named Twintuk, which lost its spark-plug connector thingy. For those, like me, whose knowledge doesn't even stretch to spark-plugs, this meant we couldn't start the Shaw. We rolled it back down the hill where, luckliy about a Km before, we had seen some friendly looking gentlemen tucking into some onion bahji. After much discussion, one of them produced an elastic band, wrapped it around something to connect it to something and it magically worked for the next two days. They also refused payment, something which rural Indians are rather more likely to do than their urban counterparts.We started 60 km south of Pune on the third day, with little thought of what was in store for when we got there. It being India’s 8th biggest city, there were a few cars knocking around, and Gabs and James used their new found Indian driving techniques to cut a swathe, quite literally, through the traffic and pedestrians. After 45 minutes of driving, as is typical, little Gabs fell asleep for the next four hours. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful as we drove toward the Ellora caves. We drove past the Daulahtabad Fort, a spectacular failed Mughal capital, although after 10 hours on the road we weren’t particularly up for sight-seeing. Compared to our usual 13 hour days without lunch, however, this was a rather pleasurably short drive. After surviving on cookies for three days, that night the staff at the hotel were pretty stunned to see us eat four main courses each.The next morning we went to see the Caves at Ellora, Hindu and Buddhist temples cut into the rockface. They were spectacular, although George reassured us that they were ‘not a patch on Petra.’ After leaving Ellora we got lost for the first and, so far, last time (famous last words…) and got help from some very friendly chaps who ripped up their pack of cards to write directions on them for us. Again, George was blabbering on about how it was so worth seeing and that he was so glad we got to see the real India which the tourists don’t get to see. He is also toying with the idea of hair braids and henna, and already sporting a kingfisher beer wife-beater. However, after a while we all wished that we were still lost. When we found our way again, it was onto the NH 3, our home for the next three days. The NH 3 connects some of India’s major cities, and is perhaps the most schizophrenic road in the world. The only thing not on the road was cars: cows, lorries, buses, brightly coloured rickshaws driven by westerners, more lorries. This was also the day when Rob and George decided to drive off for 2.5 hours, in the faster rickshaw, and leave Gabs and James panicking that they weren’t going to be able to spend George’s 21st in a nice hotel in Agra. The road we were on led to a city, Indore, described by the Lonely Planet as ‘the Detroit of India.’ While Bangra may never quite be as popular as Motown, I cannot imagine the roads leading into Detroit had quite as many trucks as that one into Indore. The next morning more repairs were needed due to the pounding the rickshaws had taken the previous day: 1000km in 3 days, over a mountain range and with an average speed of 30km/h isn’t exactly what rickshaws are designed to do. Spending the wasted driving hours reciting the Dutch football team to the mechanics sons was about as fun as that morning got. We also encountered probably the finest pieces of road to date on that day. It meant that Gabs could sleep some more, while also enjoying baring his rather inappropriate arse at the other rickshaw. Biscuit fights ensued, although not between drivers, of course, as they were too busy jostling for poll. The day was broken up by another touching example of rural hospitality when, stopping to refill the fuel tanks, a village elder/chieftain/ old man invited us in for chai and gave us a pack of cigarettes and matches- this was a wonderful show of generosity and a moment of pure kindness. It provided a contrast to, four hours later, our arrival into the filthiest, most horrible town south of the north-pole. Our rickshaws were stoned by a crowd of young men whilst we tried to negotiate for a room. Wisely we decided to cut and run, but we ended up staying in a truckers lay bye, renting tables to sleep on for 30p a night. Not long after settling down for some rest, a bat took the opportunity to defecate on George’s head. Unfortunately for George this did not prove to be quite as lucky as a bird’s guano, with a bug crawling into his ear a few hours later, causing him to bellow and shake around in what was supposedly the most painful experience of his life. Luckily a friendly Indian gentleman poured tea in his ear to kill the bug, and, for the rest of us, stop the sleep-disturbing bellowing. Rob also woke up with some rather curious, probably life-threatening and definitely contagious, boily disease.This incident also seemed to effect George’s driving, with it almost proving the end of himself and James on the front of a tractor: George’s over-taking leaves much to be desired. We made it to Gwalior in exceptional time, and found a hospital where George could have the bug removed from his ear. After one doctor assured him his ear was just waxy, they eventually found the bug under his ear-drum. Meanwhile, the other three were playing volleyball with two of the most intelligent Indians we have met so far: Domino’s delivery men. After ordering a Domino’s for lunch, we were later to have a McDonald’s for supper. As you can perhaps guess, Indian cuisine is not a group favourite. After spending an hour trying to get out of Gwalior, another couple of hours of night driving ensued during which James gave up the wheel for overly-enthusiastic use of the undertake before being handed it back by George with the line, ‘I am about to hit an Indian.’ We arrived at the Trident hotel, a fantastic hotel near the Taj Mahal and Red Fort (a 21st gift for George from Mr and Mrs Looker and for which we are all eternally grateful) and arrived in a different India. Fourteen hours after waking up from sleeping in motorway stopover on tables, we were in one of the most prestigious hotels in Agra.Must dash to celebrate George’s 21st, but we are off on the road to Lucknow tomorrow and (hopefully) Pokhara in 4/ 5 days time, when you can expect another dull and parent-orientated installment.