THE END.

Elise’s parents arrived early morning and joined us for breakfast. A few photos were taken and off we went to do a bit of sightseeing while we still had the tuktuk in our procession. Best layed plans…Our miserable piece of crap which had performed so well until the very end had well and truly had enough. She didn’t want to start, she didn’t want to run, and she certainly didn’t want to go any further than the half block to the finish line. At 1300 team Rhumb Line – Professional Tucktukery crossed the finish line.

We have all had the most amazing experience. India is a country of amazement. None of us have had an Eat, Pray, Love revelation but we have all been deeply impressed with the generosity of the people, the food, and in some places the scenery. Except Malda, Malda was shit. Andy and Elise put up with our endless breakdowns and provided us tools, knowledge, and a comforting hug when on the precipice of torching the bastard and walking off.

We spend the afternoon around the pool, in the sun doing absolutely nothing. It was glorious. The evening gave host to our warp up party that turned into a most interesting affair.

The location was a private island that I can only assume had been selected for its ability to contain the carnage. On arrival the heavens opened. We were in an outdoor pavilion and for the most part were protected from the ribbons of rain. As the night descended into farce the shower intensified from mildly annoying to start looking for higher ground. For the first time we were all subjected to the full force of the Indian monsoon. As this was climatic conditions spiraled out of control faster than an unsupervised Justin Beiber we were treated to a performance from a local martial arts team. There were many swords, daggers, sticks, fire, sticks on fire, and man touching.

Within thirty minutes the pavilion was flooded, people were outside dancing in the rain, and the less intelligent of the group were rolling around in the mud. At some point, two people elected to jump into the fast flowing river and were swept away. Police were called, search and rescue were dispatched, and we were all held on the island. When we were finally allowed to board the boat the constabulary blocked our departure and we waited almost an hour. Around 0100 we finally set off.

There were some epic stories but the greatest one of all has to go to the team of two young English guys who on the outside had a miserable experience. We ran into them at the Bajaj dealer and they were waiting for a new engine. That was a whole other farce of Indian fueled ridiculousness, lots of time was lost. To make the finishing party they drove day and night. The only issue was they each contracted the runs. To work around this they bought a hammock chair, tied it to the roof rack, and cut a whole in it. When one was on the verge of an explosive movement pants were dropped and they would jump in while the other other would drive on. The locals apparently found this to be most amusing.

Not all the teams made the finish unfortunately, our friends from the Gohst Busters reported yesterday morning they had (another) rather terminal engine failure about 500km out. Hopefully they arrive soon as I think they have many stories.

The morons who jumped in the water were found, alive. They swam across the river narrowly escaping being caught up in the drag net of evolutionary failures.

kochi

We set off at 0600 with the intention of making a coastal city and mooring up at a resort. Before we could do this however, we had to take our tuktuk through the Macdonald’s drive through. There was a man out front washing the drive and he was considerably unimpressed with us tracking mud all around. Compounding the issue was the Macdonald’s was closed so we quickly powered our way out and set off.

Andy had found a resort of small huts located around a lake that was right on the beach. We were hoping for breakfast beers, champagne, good food, perhaps a massage, and crucially laundry. It was a short blast through some rice patty and a final stretch of testicle smashing, back jarring, concussion inducing highway. As our convoy approached the coast we started seeing lovely houses, places you would actually want to live in and not the mud hovels we have become accustomed to. We drove through Thrissur, which was mostly closed due to another strike. I am beginning to think striking is a national sport. Our tuktuk behaved appallingly: continually cutting out, coughing, sputtering, choking, and complaining. We didn’t care, we were so close to the finish that we figured we could drive through it. Neither of us wanted to see the inside of that dammed carburetor again.

We rounded a sharp 90o bend and found ourselves on the doorstep of the Arabian Sea. Without hesitation both tuktuks ended up on the beach, and eventually got stuck. I ran straight for the ocean and jumped in. General jubilation was had at crossing over. The fun kept coming as Elise backed her tuktuk straight up and into a palm tree. The resulting dent, a physical reminder of her interesting driving skill, was in no way as troublesome for her as the three of us on the ground laughing ourselves into oxygen depletion. Thankfully, many cameras were readily available to document the incident. Remember, she is a pilot.

We then set off for the resort, which had all the outward appearance of our highly converted pampering. And laundry. However, dreams are just that and reality is frequently not as kind. On arrival we were informed it was a health retreat, there was no meat, hourly yoga sessions, the huts were yurts, and that under no circumstances would alcohol be permitted. We left rather quickly and were distressed to find all other resorts in the area suffered from the same level of mismanagement. We pulled along the coast hoping to find something nice. Breakfast beers turned to lunch beers, which then turned into lunch without beer. Collectively we elected to head straight for Kochi and find somewhere plush to stay.

Hotels were checked into, hugs and high fives were exchanged, and beers were ordered. We had made it. Kochi. Rickshaws in varying conditions (exhausts tied to the roof and a rather liberal application of bondo) littered the streets like plastic on a beach.

Andy, James, and I enjoyed beers on our balcony overlooking the main drag to the finish. About thirty minutes later the police arrived and took away the hotel manager. Apparently, drinking is frowned upon in these parts. It was a precursor to a night of antics that had us wondering if we would be asked to leave the hotel.

A day of breakdowns - She has had enough.

Creature comforts need to be exploited and we did our best to maximize the incredible shower, comfortable bed, and reasonable breakfast. Crucially no laundry. Our tuktuks were brought back around by the valets, they seemed to be enjoying driving them more than I was watching them do it. We took off, fired up an iPod, and our juvenile refrain of “suns out, guns out” preceded sleeves being rolled and shorts hiked up beyond the pockets: tan line mitigation. Our jubilant mood was short-lived as we immediately had a breakdown. An hour was spent on the side of the road going through spark plugs, cleaning the carb, and replacing the HT lead. None of it worked. We limped off to what would be a day of endless breakdowns and continual frustration.

Our next breakdown was an hour later with the engine coughing, sputtering, and generating no power. We found the sparkplugs we had been sold, by the Bajaj dealer, were longer than they should have been. The piston had hammered away on them and reduced the gap clearance. We swapped plugs and set off towards our next breakdown. James and I agreed our proximity to the finish line precluded us from being overly bothered, or concerned with a thorough investigation of the particular breakdown at hand. Eventually the asthmatic tuktuk ground to a halt. James and Andy stuck their heads into the back and I wandered off to buy another round of samosas and water. We pushed off again with James at the controls as I figured a change in command couldn’t do any harm to our reliability record. We clattered along for an hour and a bit when we were forced to stop again. The carb was extracted and from the dull rattle knew immediately there was another emancipated bell on the float. Andy and I flew off to find an electrician to solder it all back together, again. Being India one was found in minutes. Moored out front was a steamroller and I was most insistent that I be allowed to take for a drive. If it had a battery in it, they were working on it; I am fairly confident I could have crushed our evil handling and terribly behaved tuktuk that was across the road.

With the float fixed we stuffed it back into the carb and took off. Shortly there after the roads deteriorated to unacceptable levels, rain bucketed down, the sky was occasionally illuminated from the flash of lightning, and it got very dark. Andy and Elise suffered a failure of their electrics: with no wipers and limited lights we decided to stop at the first hotel we could. Pushing through to the coast was no longer worth it.

A rather grand hotel was spotted and a perilous dash across an unlit Indian highway ensued to make it into the parking lot. The hotel at one point had been very nice as it was well appointed. In its current state it smelt musty and the rooms were tired. Across the street was a MacDonald's, which we had heard about from some of the teams ahead of us. James consumed some western looking renditions of usual classics electing to forgo the paneer royal. Andy, Elise, and I all watched. We then went back to the hotel and ordered a full India in a surprisingly full and increasingly rowdy restaurant.

Yesterday we were most pleased with our progress and felt relaxed knowing we were within 500km of the coast. Today was a realization that cause for celebration may have been somewhat premature. Hopefully, tomorrow isn’t such a frustrating day of repeated breakdowns.

Valet in Salem

A late breakfast yielded a late start with us pushing off around 1230. A short hike ensued so we could experience some of our surroundings. Yelagiri is one in a number of mountains in what is mostly flat land. The views across the valley are unimpeded. Our walk back to the tuktuks was somewhat hurried as overhead a massive black cloud was threatening to empty its contents onto us. The continual rumble of deep thunder was warning we best get a move on. On the way down we stopped to feed the many monkeys that line the roads and wait for people to give them food. Ascertaining the alpha male wasn’t difficult as he would saunter over and collect all of the bananas for himself.

We drove until just after 1900 when it had become dark and rain had finally set in. Our tuktuk started playing up again with all manner of issues relating to sparkplugs, carburetors, and us two idiots not feeding it on regular occasion. The roads in these parts are much better with dividers, lane lines, no potholes, the occasional street light, and crucially no maniacs driving towards you in the outside lane with no lights on. Despite this we elected to hold onto our lives, not ruin another set of underwear and pulled into the first hotel we could find. Fortunately for us this happened to be an opulent airport hotel where I was able to fulfill one of my pre trip goals: valeting the tuktuk. Never before or again will the valet drive such an evil handling piece of crap. In true gentleman explorer fashion we asked for the presidential suite, only to be told it had not yet been completed. We settled on their next best room, which I was in all of eight seconds before having a shower.

A well stocked bar looked promising for Elise to get her much sought after glass of red wine. They only had the dreaded Cumbum so we skipped that and went to gin and tonics, which left me somewhat wanting as they were free from ice (we are avoiding all water that isn’t bottled).

At this point we are about 500km from the finish and are somewhat relaxed now in the knowledge that not matter what happens we will more than likely make the finish line for the 21st.

Elephants, bears and Cumbum up in Yelagiri

The previous two days yielded 900km that put us back on a schedule we were comfortable with. Our worry of falling behind was beginning to ease as we started coming across teams with increasing frequency. It was decided that for our long days and repeated night driving we would treat ourselves to a lay in and forgo the gruesome 4 something alarm clock and rolled off from Rajahmundry around 1000. The day was again largely uninspiring as we drove through soulless and drab countryside. There has been a discernible change between north and south, gone is the wet oppressive (and shirt soaking) blanket of humidity and replacing it is a dryer air which is light on the nose. We have driven through both cinnamon and eucalyptus forests and the fragrant bouquet has been a sensory surprise and delight. The landscape is now much more rocky and mountainous as well.

We pointed towards an old hill station called Yelagiri. We all agreed this would be a fine place for us to head and relax for an afternoon. Predictably, progress was slow and our arrival fell to late evening. We had been told the mountain was mostly Muslim and that alcohol had to be bought at the base of the hill. We stopped at a liquor store to procure a case of beer and some disgusting red wine for Elise. This “liquor store” was more a caged dispensary patronized by the degenerates of Indian society. A queue of 5-6 men formed with each jostling to stuff R30 at the man on the other side in exchange for a pippete of some vision altering homebrew.

We climbed to Yelagiri on a road of spaghetti draped on the side of a mountain. The amazing 180o on camber switchbacks were great fun and requited the man in the back to shift weight so as to keep the tuktuk planted on three wheels. Our fun was short lived when a man stopped us and said we were unable to proceed because there were elephants and a bear on the road. I figured this was BS and insisted we press on however, the man telling stories was adamant we had to travel in convoy. A few motor bikes, some cars, and two tuktuks crawled up the hill not seeing any elephants or bears. On arrival at our hotel the proprietor laughed profusely when we recanted the story. He was adamant there were no elephants in these parts.

We set about decimating our liquor over a full Indian. The elusive red wine Elise has been chasing was opened, which was a mistake because it was awful. It was heavily fortified and had become very sweet and thick, almost like port. The label was without description of chocolaty undertones or mention of a cornucopia of flavors. Instead it proudly proclaimed to have been manufactured in the Cumbum valley. I wish I had made up some of that last sentence. Elise was back to beer. Maybe tomorrow night she can have some wine.

Nellore with Barney

Our convoy wearily emerged onto the Indian road network shortly after 0530 for another crucial day of kilometer eating. Truth be told, the day was rather boring. We were confined to Indian motorways that would be acceptable in any developed nation. The scenery was largely uninspiring and the tuktuk behaved as one would hope. We stopped in the late morning at a Bajaj dealer and had a service done. We met a team who appeared to be having a just terrible time. Their tuktuk had been on its roof, then the back of a truck, and they were now shelling out for a whole new engine. This seemed somewhat needed as their old one was scattered across a few boxes on the service floor. That afternoon we found our friends the Archituks and travelled in convoy to Nellore. Joining our convoy was a man dressed in all purple riding a motorcycle while quite clearly hammered. He was trying to take James sunglasses and at points I wasn’t sure if he was still joking and was really robbing us. When he got bored of us he looped around and harassed Andy and Elise before shifting off to the Architucks. The story was the same amongst all of us, he wanted sunglasses despite having a pair on his head. At one point they became dislodged and I may have accidently on purpose run them over. Ten minutes later came back to us and I told him not so politely to fuck off and began to pinch him off the side of the road. James was insistent I leave him alone, focus on driving, and hope he would again lose interest. Thirty seconds later a verbal barrage of profanity laced with unrepeatable expletives was launched from the backseat with the vigor of a burst dam. When I enquired what all that was about James, with a grin on his face, said “he touched the cane rack”. Drunk motorcycling Barney had the same experience with the other members of our convoy and blazed off into the distance shouting into a cellphone while using his other hand to wildly gesticulate.

We arrived shortly before 2000, which meant enduring the pant ruining experience of Indian highways in the dark, again. We had dinner together and shared a few war stories over beer and the usual selection of Indian offerings: dahl, naan, paneer, aloo gobi, etc.

As today was really rather dull I figure it best to make use of this time to pass some judgment on the state (the country and its current station) of India.

First, and without reservation the people are generally beyond reproach. This excludes Bihar, which we were duly warned was shit and very much found to be a fresh four coil steamer. Hold that thought; I’ll come back to this. Not Bihar, the steamer. It can be frustrating surrounded by 30 people who just want to watch the white people. Little are they aware you are probably on the precipice of a Chernobyl melt down as your crappy, evil handling lawn mowing tricycle has inexplicably ceased to work, for the 4th time that morning. By and large the local Indians all call their friends and family and before long a moderate gathering turns into a you sanctioned family reunion. Most stand and quietly watch looking for a moment of opportunity to ask “where from?” while the more brazen approach with a camera phone hoping for a picture. Elise has been particularly popular with the male camera phone toting populous and very accommodating to their requests. I somehow suspect me rounding up Indian women for photos wouldn’t be met with the same enthusiasm.

On the topic of women: They are all immaculately dressed in spotless saris of rich colour. It is fashion unconcerned with class, social status, or wealth. They are often timid to approach and reserved. This is societally problematic because much of India could use some feminine sensibility. Where this unquestionably affects me (and that is all that really matters) is in hotel bathrooms. It takes a special kind of man, ironically they all seem to work in hotels, to deem some of these places safe, much less hygienic or acceptable. Shower with flops on and don’t mind the betel stain on the wall.

Now that we are at the bottom I may as well address this topic. Bare with me here, this isn’t going where you entirely expect. We like driving in the morning: the roads are generally calm, it is cooler and the engine runs better. It also allows us to see India as it goes through the motions of starting the day. This typically is children heading off to school, farmers walking goats and cows to graze and or wander around the highway, and any number of people busting a squat and expelling the previous days intake a meter removed from the side of the road. There is usually ample vegetation to shield ones bits and excretions from public display however, frightening comfort seems to be found in the roadside squat. This leads to another problem. The squat method employed is not the expected knees shoulder width apart but one leg in front of the next in an almost Tebow like stance. Inquisitive observation at the curiosity of mechanics and physics employed is generally a mistake you will only make once.

Just another day on the Rickshaw Run.

Rollin' to Rajahmundry

Shortly after 0500 our triwheeled peloton of tuktukery emerged through two dozen cows sleeping in the middle of the road. James was clearly still asleep too as he immediately crashed into a stationary cement mixer on a closed road. Thankfully the only casualty was our precious cane rack that broke free and violently launched into my lap, rudely awakening me.

Our morning was spent with repeated breakdowns and frustratingly slow pace. Terminal velocity dipped from a blistering 55 km/h to 40 km/h. James and I agreed that our next breakdown would mean the end of our convoy with Andy and Elise as we were just wasting their time. Fortuitously, the next malady was not ours and I used the opportunity to have an electrician solder our emancipated bell back onto the float. Mercifully, this resolved our problem and we set forth at a fair rate of knots. The rest of the day was spent on uninspired highway as we mulched through kilometers and ended up with a 470 km further down the road. Today was Indian national day and many of the stores were closed while cars were adorned in flags. James was most proud of his prominently displayed Union Jack and continually sang Rule Britannia. There were also occasional references to needing a Jam Boy (Google it). One wouldn’t have otherwise noticed, as there was the same number of loiterers. On our way into Rajahmundry we drove through various festivals, which were typically bright and loud. Sadly, we got in around 2100 and most of the festivities had closed for the night.

Slow go to Gopalpur

We all enjoyed a bit of lay in as our sumptuous beds, clean clothes, and functional plumbing (that isn’t a metaphor, the shower heads could have been used to wash elephants) required our extended attendance at their comforts. After settling our bill, which had increased handsomely owing to a few drinks the night previous we set off. Almost immediately a toll at a haphazard checkpoint had to be paid for one to enter into a causeway of visual delight. The toll was a modest R100 for most but prices fluctuated with negotiating ability.

We navigated a twisty elevated ribbon of asphalt that looked out across a flood plain that was at high tide. The palette of colors was varied from rich magenta soils, lush green of well hydrated vegetation, brown and gray of upper tree trunk sections while the bottoms had been pasted in white. The contrast spectacularly framed the scenery as it dissipated into the endless flood plain. If there were ever an advertisement for an infinity pool this would very much be it. We passed trees and shrubs reaching up from the brownish red flood as the occasional house waded in water perfectly lapping at the mid-step level of the front porch. Meandering backcountry roads provide the best of India. This, in my opinion has been the best of the best.

Our enamorment with the present station dissipated shortly after a stop for delicious, sweet petrol and the inevitable rejoining of the main highway. On the way into Puri we had experienced a few issues with the engine cutting out at higher speed and on lifting. These soon reappeared and it became apparent the situation was of more concern than just an overheating engine. The carb was pulled apart and we found one of the two bells had emancipated itself from the float. We coughed and sputtered our way into a small city of dizzying blandness in search of a Bajaj dealership. We didn’t find one, but again this is India. Within a few minutes we had located a new float and set about replacing the fractured one. Not entirely unsurprising the replacement wasn’t quite as we required. With few options it was molded to more or less suit our needs. Or so we thought. With all the finesse and conditioning of an Industrial Revolution era chain smoker running a marathon through a tire fire we burped, sputtered, wheezed, coughed and wretched our pulmonary challenged tricycle to Gopalpur for the overnight halt. Along the way we visited various mechanics of various ability. The only variable that remained constant was our asthmatic engine. Gopalpur is a relic of colonial times reminiscent of the English seaside. Only without amusements overseen by generally undesirable types you would never leave unattended around children. I would like to believe at some junction our hotel had been agreeable to human comfort. In its contemporary configuration a more aggressive antonym than “agreeable” is compulsory to a just description. Andy and I avoided the grimy seaside hovel by absconding a table in a neighboring dhaba and set about meticulously taking apart our problematic carburetor to clean and rebuild it. For the purveyors allowance of our practice in our mechanical cardiology we ordered some dinner. Somewhere between the MSG filled fried rice, the MSG laced chicken, and the MSG doused prawns “the fear” manifested with the realization Kochi on the 21st was not promising. We agreed successive days of kilometer annihilating, problem free running, would keep us from the bed of a truck to make up time. We had done 170km, far less than our target of 230km and we figured we were two days behind…

Luxury in Puri

We raised our weary bones just after 0530 for an attempt at making Puri by midday. This was our plan, but as with everything on this adventure it quickly evaporated and we were left to make adjustments. Andy and Elise had cleaned their carb the night before and from the off had struggled with power issues. A hasty roadside rebuild ensured but the outcome was no different. It was assumed to be a compression issue between the main carb housing and the float bowl. Andy worked on the problem with input from 50 locals who had left their various loitering posts to watch the white people look in the back of a cavernous engine bay. While all of this was going on two rounds of chai were ordered and some breakfast of fried cardamom cakes, donuty anise balls, and a collection of fried veggies were procured.

With the carburetor fixed we set off on smooth roads for Puri. We had heard it was a lovely beachside town and a good place to relax and take a break. We were all keen on this as for the first time on this expedition we had arisen with the burden of tiredness and fatigue. When the roads are bad it is physically difficult to manhandle our misaligned tuktuk. The pull to the right is demanding on the straight and flat bits but the quick sawing action required to dodge potholes/craters, cows, and maniacal drivers is exhausting.

The day was spent mostly on uninspired motorway with standard pastoral views of rice patty. Along the way the decision was made to ignore the average accommodation (which I must say has been heinously appalling) and find something befit of our Gentlemen Explorer expedition. On arrival into the gated compound we were presented with fresh watermelon juice that was consumed with all the class of a glutton before we scampered off for a shower. Finally, hotel towels that were not pilled to a point of being exfoliators! A kilo of grime, grease, and dirt was removed from each of us while boogies which look like a precursor to “The Consumption” were fired at will into Kleenex and not single ply. However, the real reason for all this sumptuous comfort and glorious excess was rather basic: Laundry. I was beyond situation critical on underwear and one of my shirts had been described as feral. The laundry situation was spiraling out of control and wandering perilously close into the danger zone of camping territory. Thankfully that problem was resolved and my Rickshaw Run can continue to the end with a clean set of britches each day.

Balasore

The day started with craterious roads but thankfully the unending assault yielded with the transformation to smooth asphalt.

A two hour stop in a city that could not have been more uninspiring, dirty, and generally awful was made to find a Bajaj mechanic to sort out our breaks. If Ebola breaks out in India this may well be the home of patient zero. A street mechanic did nothing for R200 and we scattered from the hellacious heat and humidity.

On arrival in Balasore we immediately set about finding a mechanic. The local Bajaj store only concerned itself with bikes for the proletariat and not our bourgeois mobiles. Of course, this being India someone at the dealer had a brother, who knew a guy, who had a cousin. Before long we had sourced a few spare parts but crucially new seals for our master break cylinder. The seals were installed but the pedal still travels a disconcerting amount as pressure in the system remains low.

Dinner was in the hotel where we had to eat on our own in a special room. This apparently had to do with our instance on drinking beer, no justification was given but I am ignorantly assuming it is considered blasphemy or something equally misguided. At least this time Elise was able to join having not been granted entry into the bar in Malda on account of possessing an inappropriate number of X chromosomes.