Culture shock: going from India to Spain; from people to places

The morning we were leaving India, just two days ago, a friend wrote, among other things "I thought of you and the upcoming change in weather that you will experience, to say nothing of the change in culture." Below is my slightly edited response.

As you so well anticipated, I have been reflecting on the upcoming transition from India, and Asia in general and going to Spain where it will be sunny but cooler, but more importantly a change in culture and traditions. As much as I love travel, I am painfully aware of some misgivings about the transition and if it were not for the fact that Alison has never been to Spain, I am not sure it would be my first choice as a destination specifically, and Europe in general; perhaps its because my own background. Like the joke about a person bragging that he is going to Europe, and the other responding, "Big deal, I was born there". When traveling, I am also aware of the saying, if you like home cooking; eat at home and Europe is very much like home.

It goes beyond that and I cannot explain it in my still foggy state of mind at 5am this morning, albeit I am having my first coffee (mud). I think it goes to the root of culture. I find people in Asia generally warm and welcoming, curious about us as strangers. I have written about being stopped and asked for photographs; people on motorbikes and scooters constantly barraging us with questions, mostly in one of the many incomprehensible languages in India, and with a little bit of English, wanting to know our country, where we are going, how we like India, how old am I and inevitably, parting with a smiling wave wishing a "happy journey".

In India, we attended three huge and very lavish weddings, where we felt like we were the guests of honour and part of the family and it was genuine, perhaps in part because my own craving for family, as I am now an orphan and my children live some distance away.

Then there is the countless random acts of kindness. Asking directions often leads to a person taking upon himself to say, "Follow me on a motorbike", and patiently taking us through crowded city streets, as we move much more slowly, to our intended destination.

Riding along on a quiet country road, a couple of hundred feet away, I see a man running in the field as if chased by a wild elephant. His one arm is waving and the other is holding his shirt and he clearly wanting us to stop. I slow down and his intent is clear and he is totally out of breath when we meet by the roadside. He opens his shirt tail that he was holding and with a big smile hands me a banana, which just happens to be my favourite food on the road. Then another banana, and more. I count about six and ask Alison to help. Like a bottomless pit he keeps offering more and between us we have trouble holding onto them. We try to resist but he insists and we have nothing but a smile and many thanks to show our appreciation for the 12 bananas he has just given us. We wave and he runs back to the field to continue his work.

We both ride with two round side-view mirrors on our bikes. One broke due to a minor mishap. We pass a store selling frames and mirrors. The owner comes to us and I point to the broken mirror and he immediately tries to take the mirror off and is frustrated that he has to wait for me for to use a special wrench to remove it. He gives it to one of his workers, who spends about 15 minutes just removing the broken pieces as they are soundly glued. While we wait, we are offered tea and are peppered with questions. A half-hour later we are set to go, a repair that would nearly be impossible to effect in Canada and he refuses payment. "You are our guests in India."

At a highway dhaba, a truck stop eatery. We have tea and cookies. Once again, the owner and his family refuse payment, saying "You are visitors in India". The only thing they ask is that we hounour them, by taking a photograph of them!

Similarly there are countless bicycle puncture repair places. One of my inner tubes blew up in such a way that I did not even attempt a repair. Almost as a test, I approach a fellow, show him how to use my pump on the special valve and a few minutes later my tube is as good and new and he waves me away with a smile when I offer payment.

The list goes on.

In the western, (sometimes called the civilized world), when we talk about our travels in Asia, the most frequent question asked: "Is it safe?". There is of course, poverty in India. People work incredibly hard, and yet I have never felt unsafe, felt any kind of threat, day or night. I suspect most of us have a fear of the unknown, the stranger, people who look and behave differently than we do. But I have never felt fear here and only some mild degree of discomfort a few times, largely due to an inability to communicate, which is overcome by smiles, handshakes and the countless greetings and the simple acts of kindness, of perfect strangers.

And now we are in Barcelona. Of course it does not help that I have my own misgivings of big cities, the very high youth unemployment and a history I associate, to some extent with differences in religion, culture in Europe and South America, where crime is more rampant. As if to reinforce my preconceptions, just yesterday one of Alison's friends, who has lived in Barcelona wrote:

Be aware that the pick pockets are REALLY bad in Barcelona - so much so that you shouldn't have your phone out when you're walking around - if you have to text or make a phone call don't do it walking around - especially if you're anywhere between Plaza Catalunya and the port, sit somewhere in the middle of a cafe (i.e. with people between you and the sidewalk).

Yesterday, our first full day in Barcelona was perfectly wonderful as we walked the city for about 8 hours practically non-stop, feeling perfectly safe in the streets crowded with tourists, enjoying the brilliant, crisp, sunny day, with my valuables safely stowed in a money belt and my cellphone carefully hidden. The city and its architecture is stunning: clean, vibrant, orderly and is very much in contrast to India. The shock of prices will take some time to adjust not the least of which is the 7 Euros to enter the Cathedral, which we passed on, as we have little to repent.

It was while buying a SIM card for the phone that the major contrast emerged. Vodaphone, the company that gave us nothing but headaches in India is the largest service provider here so I approached them with some reluctance. Thankfully they reinforced their poor organization by telling me that they are out of SIMs and that I should try their competitor Orange, a French company, that I knew was the second largest in Spain.

The young woman at Orange was a delight. She was on the phone but indicated for us to wait and she had a beaming smile as she spoke to another customer. I also could not help but note that she was very attractive: tall, black hair, tanned skin, perhaps of Indian background??. She wore a black blouse and black jeans which were accented by an orange belt, which matched the colour of her lipstick. To boot, she was very efficient and in a few minutes we were on our way with the SIM installed and functioning.

Only when we were leaving it struck me that in India, we would have asked (and she would have been proud to have been asked) to have her photograph taken. I am sure there is some deep meaning in the fact that In Spain, at least thus far, we take pictures mostly of buildings and places; in India, it was mostly of people.

tricks of the trade

In my earlier blog about what this fool has done, I described our travels by bicycle as comparatively easy, and now that we are Delhi and feeling elated about having cycled 4,333 kms, the trip in hindsight appears almost seamless with no significant untoward events . Admittedly, there were some hot humid days in Goa, and the five days leaving Dharamsala in the foothills of the Himalayas were very tough - for reasons of topography ie mostly hills and some unusually inclement weather. However, overall, our ride of has been quite comfortable due to a number of reasons.

This trip began with the notion of riding from Goa, through the center of India to Amritsar near the Pakistani border, to the Himalayas and return to Delhi. One of the challenges in planning this was that, unlike other well cycled areas, I could not find any other blogs, travelogues or other mention of anyone else doing this route or one similar to it.

One of the biggest challenges we faced was trying to ensure we could find accommodations each night within a reasonable riding distance of 60 - 70km each day. As such, my route planning consisted of finding dots on a map, sized and shaped to reflect the population of the place, to ascertain whether we could bed for the night, a task not helped by Google since the word 'hotel' in India is often synonymous for an eatery, but the thought of sleeping on table tops was not very inviting.

Fortunately, we discovered that Google uses the Indian Yellow Pages Directory to map "hotels". However, in a rapidly growing and tech savvy country like India, where very few use landlines and even fewer advertise in the Yellow Pages, we were pleasantly surprised to find more good quality lodgings, many built quite recently, than indicated by Google. As well, after a few weeks of riding and finding lots of comfortable places to sleep, and hotels/eateries along the way, and with our improving physical stamina, we were on a number of occasion able to cover more than 100 kms per day, giving us a wider selection of destinations and places to stay.

Of course a lot more goes into a bicycle trip than eating and sleeping, and I wanted to share some the simple aids and tricks of the trade, that have made our travels over the years so much more enjoyable, as shown in the photograph below.

Given the objective of travelling as lightly as possible and without carrying too many duplicates, it is important to be able to repair clothes, shoes, bags, bicycle parts that crack, break, tear or otherwise become unusable.

My first choice for repair almost anything is duct tape: strong, flexible and quite fashionable in the colour black. Duct tape is suitable for many tasks that require mending, binding or patching. In an emergency it has even served to fix a thread bare tire.

Next in line in my bag of fixes is super glue, in gel format. Gel, unlike its conventional format that oozes everywhere, and usually binds one's fingers to everything to which it is applied, has the same properties of strength with the virtue of having the consistency of toothpaste, and staying in place once applied.

I also carry some chicken wire: highly flexible and strong to bind and secure larger objects together, a case in point on this trip is the repair to my alloy bike rack that cracked in three places. Since the rack repair would have required very high temperature welding, my gel super glue and chicken wire has done the trick for the last few months.

In the food department, our all time favourite is a half liter light and compact, electric kettle. Along with two plastic bowls and two small cups, we have been able to enjoy tea and coffee, at any time (albeit that finding dark, French roast Arabica coffee in India has been a minor miracle! as was finding mint tea for Ali) and we have also discovered the joys of preparing whole grain instant noodle soups, as well as quick cook oats, which are especially useful for early morning starts to beat the heat or afternoon snacks.

The bowls are also handy for salads, with a simple folding knife and a peeler, we have made Israelian (as it is often called here) salads of tomato, carrots, cucumber, onions and peppers and combination of fruits as well.

There is also a 20 foot length of yellow nylon rope, great as an indoor or outdoor laundry line which is a must if you plan on traveling light and washing clothes frequently.

A three inch LED flashlight (rechargeable by simply plugging into an electric socket), is most handy when walking at night; reading the small print on maps and of course, during the fairly frequent power outages.

There is also the boy scout's favourite: Swiss Army knife, with it scissors, blades, files, magnifying glass, pipe cleaner, tweezers, toothpick, bottle and can opener etc.

However, there is no substitute for some innate curiosity, a bit of child-like wonder, a sense of adventure to discover the joys of travel, hopefully helped by a few tricks of the trade.

What One Fool Can Do...

One of the joys of bicycle touring, is not only the ability to travel independently to experience the sights, sounds, smells and the totality of the landscape, but also the mind is free to roam. At times like this, I make connections among ideas, and even think that I have discovered some profound insights. Alas, like waking from a dream, some of these ideas may make little or no sense in the cold light of day.

I recently read the book, "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed, a story about a young woman's terribly grueling tale of hiking solo 1,700 kms of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), with no prior experience or training in backpacking. At the end of her journey, she meets someone who expresses an interest in doing the same hike, and she says "You could. You should. Believe me, if I can do this, anyone can". Having read about her ordeals, I was struck by the fact that, I am sure I could not do what she did, nor do I feel that I should and am highly unlikely to even attempt, anything remotely as demanding as hiking the PCT. Maybe?

Then I paused as I considered that over the last 20 years, Alison and I have toured on bicycles, more than a dozen of the countries in south-east Asia, and are now on our longest trip, the fourth in India, four months and about 4,000 kms, which most people would consider challenging under the best of circumstances, let alone, independently on bicycles. Still, I cannot help thinking that since we learn to ride a bike at the age of five or so, and riding a bike is something we never forget, that with a bit of practice and training, most would be able to what we do: travel on two wheels, in a foreign land, with comparative ease.

The second incidence I have been reflecting on is a comment a British tourist made, while we were having lunch, in a lovely hotel restaurant. She wanted fresh orange juice, and the waiter unsure of the requirements, came back with a tetra pack of processed orange juice, to which the tourist, quite exasperated exclaimed, "why is there no fresh orange juice?" At this point Alison went to our nearby room and offered her some of our oranges, to which she responded with total incredulity "where did you get these?" What was even more perplexing is that she was traveling with a car and driver and oranges are everywhere. In fact, not only oranges, but all kinds of fruits and vegetables are available, in villages, at most country road intersections, from peddlers on bikes, from backs of trucks and even directly from farms.
Lastly, there was an article in one of the Indian newspapers about travel and that "people are searching for meaningful and authentic experiences" and "not conventional luxury travel which is available in almost every destination". They go on to suggest that the key is technology that can connect people who offer for example "authentic" in-home dining experiences, travelling by ox cart, to linking individuals on a web-based service called "withlocals" that includes personally guided tours through the slums of Mumbai, and so on.

I have also been reflecting on suggestions that Alison and/or I should write a book about our travels. While flattering, the last thing I would want to do is write a travelogue as there is already an infinite amount of information on what is out there, from guidebooks, web based organizations like TripAdvisor and the plethora of online booking sites with recommendations, personal blogs and stories and so on.

In fact, what in my mind connects all of the above: not considering a solo hike of the Pacific Crest, a tourist not stopping to buy an orange from a local market, and the oxymoron of using technology to provide "unique" experiences, and me not wanting to write a book on travel, is that most of us are inherent followers and resistant to trying new things. I believe all of the information out there has a counter-intuitive effect. Too much prior information raises expectations and often leads to disappointment: restaurants that do not live up to their billing, the Tower of London being a relative dwarf, and having seen pristine romantic photos of the Taj Mahal, many are disappointed to find it inundated with noisy tourists that obliterate the views etc.

Worse, having reviewed all the sources of information and analyzed places to see, hotels, restaurants, viewed the videos, read the blogs and peer reviews, many conclude "why bother". Why experience the reality of it all, when we can stay comfortably in our own surrounds, in our easy chairs in front of our giant computer/TV screens in ultra HD, ready access to drinks and munchies and eliminate all uncertainties and surprises and all the perceived discomforts of travel?
Yet, I continue to blog, post some photos of where we have been, trying to focus not so much on the details, but on feelings and ideas that travel generates, in the firm belief that with a little bit of planning, practice and using some common sense, that it is possible to have authentic independent experiences. Based on our own travels, I believe that the world is generally safe, that people despite language and cultural differences are friendly and welcoming, and that this is true even in, and perhaps especially in, a country like India, one of the most exotic and rewarding places to travel.

What one seventy year-old fool can do, you can too.

All the news thats fit to eat

It was about 9:30 in the morning, and we had already been riding for about two hours, having left early to beat the heat. After consuming a fairly ample self-made "bed tea" and "bed porridge", which is another story, we had cycled some 35kms in central Maharashtra, when it felt as if we were climbing a steep hill and the same time, facing severe headwinds. Its seemed like no amount of pushing was getting us ahead: a sure sign that our bodies were rapidly running out of fuel.

Thankfully, we soon came to a cross-road, which had a few stalls, where locals were sitting sipping chai in the morning sunlight. There was also a large crowd congregating around a man, quite rotund (a sure confirmation of his popularity and financial success), who was dishing a yellow looking something from a two gallon pot. We gestured to him that we wanted to eat and nodded as he served up two plates of his steaming offering. The food tasted so marvelous that we in unison ordered a second serving, feeling our bodies instantly energized. Our sense of well-being was enhanced by the colorful yellow rice, with hints of saffron and bits of vegetables and spices, which is a local staple called poha. At the time, I could not help but think that this was the best fried rice that I had ever eaten, which triggered thoughts about our eating experiences over the last two months while cycling through India.

Had we been is some recently opened, star-chef operated restaurant back home, loved by the critics and followed by those in the know with a several month wait for reservations, I could imagine a waiter with attitude handing out menus to the privileged few, no doubt printed on fine parchment, which would call the rice dish we had just consumed as "melange aux riz provencal supreme" with accents flying in every direction. In finer print It would poetically embellish and describe it as "organic South Indian hand picked long grain rice, suffused with saffron and gently sauted with locally sourced, seasonal vegetables".

While fine dining may be the flavour of the day, for those who hunger for the latest trends, nothing satisfied us more than the plate of poha at a time we needed it: grub, food, substance, nourishment, energy served by an amicable man who ladled heaping spoonfuls of his one and only offering to the masses and to two hungry and appreciative cyclists.

In fact, during most of our Indian travels the best foods are enjoyed at eateries without menus. They are inevitably places that cater to truckers, who vote with their wheels. On the road, truck stops need no reviews nor star chefs, no menus nor flowery adjectives (which seem to enhance anticipation, but often disappoint). The wheel counts at the side of the road are proof of the pudding, not that the food is mush. The truck stop eateries, or dhabas as they are known locally, predictably offer dahl and vegetable dishes that come piping hot, highly spiced and in huge quantities, accompanied by freshly sliced onions and pickles. There is always an ample supply of hot-out-of-the-oven tandoori breads and if still hungry, a bowl of steamed rice at the end as a filler. And the service is always impeccable: quickly prepared with refills offered without demand. We have yet to leave a highway dahba on our combined four wheels hungry or well served and our pocket book hardly dented.

These reflections also remind me how much of our food in India is sourced directly from markets, bought in bulk, taken away wrapped in newspapers, tied with strings and how little of it is pre-packaged. But what is more glaringly missing are lists of ingredients which has me thinking how we in our developed world no longer eat food, but consume an infinite possible combinations of calories, fiber, fats, salt, sugars, pre or pro-biotics, various nutrients etc. As such, food shopping becomes a mind-boggling exercise in juggling combinations of ingredients and the bewildering array of choices becomes a quest for some kind of Nirvana. Food consumption in our western world and the endless possibilities leads to industries promulgating obviously conflicting diets based on fats, protein, carbohydrates, which in turn supports an industry of cooking and recipe advice and a complementary industries designed to help us lose the weight from all the over-consumption, whether its through diets or various eating and exercise regimens.

Of course in our developed world, the luxury of choice, and the constant preoccupation of evaluating, measuring, comparing, and always seeking the ultimate to give us the sense of well-being, applies not only to picking restaurants, buying food, but to nearly everything that we acquire. With rapid advances in technology, yesterday's "it" goods or services become outmoded, which in turn, create a pang for the latest, in an ever-expanding cycle of acquiring and disposing, bingeing and purging, but never being truly satisfied.

The latest fad is all the "Fit-Bits" and related digital health paraphernalia, designed to measure steps, calories, energy expanded, hours slept, distances traveled etc. all in the aid of achieving some ideal weight and state of physical fitness. All through India, people working in the fields, in construction, carrying huge stacks of wood and gallon jugs of water, seem every bit as fit as their developed counterparts, and very few seem to carry extra weight and somehow they seem to manage on fairly basic diets. From an evolutionary point of view, based on those who live north of the Arctic Circle who traditionally lived on a diet of near 100 protein and fat,and those near the equator, who traditionally lived mostly on vegetables and fish, our human body, unlike car engines that can only function on high-octane fuels, we humans are able to function quite well on some pretty basic foods and any combination thereof. Our food malaise for most, stems from a multitude of choices and over consumption, accompanied by a sedentary life style.

A few days later, we yet again are running low on energy as we approach a group of food stalls. We eagerly order two servings of the irresistible yellow rice mixture, which we consume with relish, hardly noticing that they came wrapped in newspapers: all the news thats fit to eat.

Is seeing believing?

During the early years of my high school, I was fortunate to secure through close family connections a job as an electrician's assistant, despite having no more knowledge about the subject than flicking on a switch. The job paid well and while the title seemed glamorous, the the work was anything but: more like several levels below an apprentice sanitary engineer. Beyond the pay, the job had benefits: working using some physical skills, with brick and stone-masons, mostly friendly Italians, who took pity on my meager lunches and shared their giant coolers filled with sandwiches, fruit, desserts and mandatory wine, which was a godsend to an underage teenager. None of these benefits could hide the fact that I was the low-kid on the totem pole. We were working on new schools and my job consisted mostly of using a hammer and chisel to knock pre-designated rectangular shapes in cement blocks to accommodate light-switches and electrical outlets, with an occasional junction box thrown in. Despite cement blocks being relatively soft, and making the openings precise required some concentration, most mistakes could be disguised by cover plates, and if the opening was entirely too large, by groveling to the brick-layers a little mortar would fix my errors. Still, hardly a day went by without the hammer finding the soft-flesh of my knuckles or fingers, and by the end of the summer I had well-pronounced scabs attesting to why I did not rise in rank with experience.

This long winded introduction is by way of establishing my bona fides for the use of and admiration for a hammer and chisel as instruments of construction. These recollections came back to me after seeing and marveling at Kailasa Temple, one of 34 cave temples in Ellora, India, designated as a World Heritage Site. Prior to our arrival in Ellora, we had seen some magnificent cave temples in Badami, and Aurangabad but somehow the scope, size and audacity of Kailasa, has me seeing but still not believing in this creation.

To be clear, cave temples are carved out of massive rock formations, using only a hammer and chisel. These vast temples are not made of soft, sedimentary rock formations but of solid granite, far harder than the soft cement blocks I experienced in my youth. My respect for this instrument is enhanced by the knowledge that most of the other art forms are essentially applying replaceable elements: a canvas can accommodate lot of paint and brush strokes and cover up lots of mistake. Buildings of brick, stone and marble also have tolerance and the ability to cover up errant pieces.

Hard stone, unlike my over-sized electrical cut out boxes, cannot be covered up with a plate, or mortar and a coat of paint. An errant strike of a hammer and chisel leaves a lasting testament and would ruin the entire entity. As such, I try to imagine the mind set of King Krishna 1, in the year 735 who started the construction and all the labour that took to complete this undertaking, two hundred years later, Seeing the results still seems incredulous.

The work began at a cliff top and the entire temple complex is carved out of a giant rock face. Estimates suggest that about 3,000,0000 cubic feet of rock was chiseled out and from which an integral sculptural masterpiece created, some calling it the greatest monolithic sculpture in the world. The footprint of the complex is double that of the Parthenon in Athens, is half as high; about 276 feet long, 154 feet wide and about 107 feet high. Within this giant space are temples, immense monolithic pillars, monasteries, chiselled staircases, elaborate archways, life sized elephants and galleries, all covered with thousands of remarkable and prodigious sculptural statues and decorations on virtually every surface, each of which, is a stand-alone work of art.

One guide book description: "Here is rock cut architecture at the apex of technical skill of eight and ninth centuries. ..it combines immensity with grace, energy and superb genius. Its conception and planning are matched by the jewel-like execution. Hundreds of architects and sculptors created this grandeur out of living rock in an inspired period of the country's art history."

This is our fourth day Ellora. We looked at and passed on staying in two of the only rated hotels in the modest village. Fortunately, further down the road we found a sign advertising "Ellora Heritage Resort" opened only a few months ago.

Our cottage is set in a beautifully landscaped, serene garden perfect for contemplation and viewing the caves from a distance, as if to give a different perspective. Our host Imran, a charming man of the world, does everything to make our stay comfortable, including a surprise birthday cake to celebrate Alison's milestone. And yet, no amount of quiet contemplation has me convinced that "seeing is believing". I still marvel at who ever designed the master plan, how did that first strike of the hammer on a simple chisel resulted in the marvel. Despite the tranquil setting or perhaps because of it, The Kailasa Temple, remains unbelievably inscrutable.

Happy contemplations

after writing the above, I wanted to attached some more details,perhaps some independent photos and descriptions, and like most of us, turned to the Google gods, and the second search item is the video which lends some credence to my own musings?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2Jl4HNDixc

Yellapur to Dandeli

Leaving Yellapur we enjoyed riding through the jungles of the Dandeli Wildlife Sanctuary, with virtually no traffic and only jumping monkeys and shrilling of birds to keep us company. Our first stop at the edge of Dandeli was at the government run Jungle Resort, staff dressed as ageing boy scouts, offering a room for two at a steep price or camping in tents - not much less expensive. When I questioned the prices, the first selling point was that it included a bonfire, a seemingly obvious attempt to sell the sizzle, as well as night and morning jungle activities and all meals.

Within less than a kilometer, we were at the town traffic circle, with the usual mayhem, the high noon sun soaking up my energy reserves, when a kind soul offered to help locate the homestay I had been trying to find. Using two cell phones, and many trips in and out of an adjoining small eatery, about 10 minutes later this friendly fellow summons someone from the crowd, who proceeds to guide us across the traffic circle, to a travel agent, with all kinds of enticing photos of elephants, treks etc. Alarm bells rang for this intrepid independent traveler. The agent, who we later learn is Nandini, tells me that the highly rated homestay I wanted is some 60 kms away. She shows me a number of nearby properties on her computer screen, and I select one with a pink room, costing a modest 1000 rupees room only or 2000 for the package, which again included a bonfire and meals or about 10% of the government property's rates. A quick calculus: room only is a better value as we will likely not have breakfast and take lunch in town. She is delighted with our choice as it is the property that she and her family own and manage, and Nandini and husband lead the way in their car for about 3 kms, with us cycling behind, to their Jungle Mist Hill Homestay.

The place, at the foot of a hill, is a former worker lodging for a nearby pulp mill. It is simple, with renovated bathrooms, but provides the basic creature comforts. Set on the edge of a small village where locals still live off the land as I suspect they have for generations, our presence is very much a novelty. In fact, between Goa and Hampi, for about 10 days there was not a foreigner in sight.

Following signs at first, we go looking for a nearby mountain top temple. When there are no more signs we follow narrow and steep trails to the top of the hill, assuming from the name, that temple would occupy prime real estate at the peak but its not there. After climbing down, a half hour each way, we discover that it was much closer to our place of stay but we managed to create our own jungle experience! We walk to the village, and enjoy the market: a proud flower merchant offers Alison a red rose, another bananas, neither expecting anything but a smile and a thanks in return. Lunch is the local thali, four curries, rice and chapati, with unlimited refills for 50 rupees a serving, a bargain even in India. We sip chai at the end of a bridge that separates the village for the "jungle lodge" and watch local life unfold in front of our eyes and of course respond to ongoing questions about us aliens "What is your country? what is your age? what is your profession? What is your purpose in India? What do you eat in India?" This is typically followed by a request to take our photograph on a cell phone and a parting phrase "Happy journey"

The second day Nadini's brother and four college friends arrive from Pune, a big city some six hours drive away. They have come, wanting to partake in a back-to-nature, outdoor experience. In the evening, the 'house boy' struggles even with plenty of lighter fluid, to start the bonfire of a few sad sticks of wood, and the smell of the later is quite overwhelming. Wood as a fuel source is a scarce commodity, as all through are travels, we see people pick dead pieces, cutting branches and splitting chunks with wedges and hammers.

At our bonfire, the men bring out a bottle of rum and a bottle of 12 year old scotch. It is clear they are not drinkers. Being "uncle" as I am commonly called, and not wishing to be a poor sport, I, with much persuasion, accept the first serving from the bottle and help consume far more than my share of the scotch.

A live band, brought in for the occasion, plays local melodies in the background as Nandini tells us about her marketing plans for the lodge and business plans for hotel she and family are building north of Goa. Being someone who never feels too restrained about giving advice, free or otherwise, and with the help of good scotch, I make some marketing and real estate suggestions. She is clearly appreciative.

On our final bill, the room rate is reduced for the "overstay night" and there is no charge for the the second dinner as "we were part of the family". Such is the warmth and generosity that we continually receive.

As we continue our ride, sadly, I cannot help but notice, outside factories, construction sites and where crops are being harvested, temporary settlements consisting of prospector style tents: mostly blue tarps supported by a beam and a couple of cross pieces. These tent cities have with minimal facilities: women cooking on open fires, water carried in large urns for considerable distance and children and a few livestock, meandering about. We in the developed world seek out glam camping and the outdoor experience; clearly, India has also arrived as urbanites are drawn by bonfires and the seemingly simpler ways of life of yesteryear.

From Goa to Yellapur

Traveling, especially in India, while reading Paul Theroux's semi-autobiographical "My Secret History", is a lethal combination for me. His response to a female benefactor's question: "Is there anything you want?" He replies "Yes, what no one else has, what no one else wants or can even imagine." He continues "people with money bought things to be like everyone else. If I had money, I thought, I would try to be different as possible'".

Leaving the endless beaches of Goa with limitless comforts and stuff that money can buy and what all the tourist seem to want and can have, we took a radical turn as we headed inland. For a week now we have been riding through country I could not have imagined, and because of the perceived hardship of doing it on two wheels, I suspect few would want, and yet the totality of the experience, is as different as possible, which makes it so satisfying.

Our point of departure from the coast was Karwar, a sheltered port, a huge estuary that has been coveted by navies and foreign conquerors for millennia and is now India's largest naval base. Our first stop is in Virje, just a tiny dot only on the Google map, turns out to be the home of a huge hydro and nuclear power project, with residents housed in Soviet style high-rises and a fleet of modern buses shuttling workers between sites. The hotel we stayed at clearly had its moment of grandeur during the construction phase of the projects a few decades ago, and is now vastly oversized and under-utilized, and the deferred maintenance is clearly showing. The arrival of two foreigners, especially cyclists, sends waves through the staff. I decline the super-deluxe suite, all in white marble and cavernous spaces with badly peeling plaster, for the superior room, in much better condition and still huge with the same gleaming marble. The manager personally directs us to the attached restaurant and the staff descends eager to please. Outside the residential compound the locals treat us as dignitaries from a foreign place, which we clearly are.

For our next day's ride we are forewarned that it is for the most part through a State Park and there are no services other than two tiny villages, and that the road is mostly a single lane track, albeit paved. We stock up on local tangerines, bananas, peanuts, water and of course, sweets and pastries, which are ubiquitous in India. What we were not anticipating were the twist and turns and challenging hills, and the near absence of any traffic. The sixty kilometers were demanding but thrilling as the jungle provided a near complete canopy covering, keeping us cool and waterfalls with their rushing sounds adding a novelty to the silence of the jungle, which was constantly punctuated by birds, mostly heard but not seen. But it was the presence of monkeys, individually and sometimes in large troops watching us from the roadside or jumping from tree to tree leaving trails of green leaves and small broken branches on the roadside that provided amusement beyond imagination.

Arriving quite tired in Yellapur, we were further delighted to see a huge billboard advertising Banana County Resort with modern cottages, massage, internet etc. and it was only two kilometers off the main road, admittedly on a poorly maintained dirt track. The place was huge and an inspection of the room showed it to have all the mod cons. At about $50 per night it was expensive, but seemed like a fitting reward for a hard days' days ride. To our surprise, there was no hot water. When I mentioned this obvious deficiency, and that even the bell boy said there was hot water, we were given a stream of explanations. "Yes there is hot water; would will like a bucket of it now, that there was break in the pipes, and the "bellboy does not know anything." On further probing, we are reassured that there is solar powered hot water but is not turned on because there are no guests. Clearly our presence after paying full freight went unnoticed. Later, after an immense struggle, as the internet only works intermittently if one leanes over the front reception desk, I was able to check Tripadvisor and noticed that lots of others complained about not having had hot water. When I mention this to the manager, he said "those were comments by angry and malicious customers who demanded a discount, for no hot water". Exactly!

We had a great dinner in the cavernous but elegant dining room. The next morning, at exactly 6:30 am as promised, there is a knock at the door and a waiter in full uniform, gleaming smile announces: "Good morning SIR! its bed tea". When I ask for a bucket of hot water, he assures me, and indeed the hot water has been turned on! Welcome to the mysterious ways of India. We left clean and well fed, awaiting the mysteries of the roads ahead.

Goa and beyond?

Journeys to exotic places typically begin with a kamikaze driver. Our taxi ride, a distance of about 30 kms, that took about an hour in heavy traffic, seemed like eternity, as we made our way from Goa International Airport to the historic Portuguese part of the city called Paniji, was no exception. The heat, the humidity, the blaring horns, the relentless effort to gain inches by weaving in and out of traffic and accelerating and then crashing to sudden stops, in our jet lagged stupor, did not help. The very thought of cycling here became terrifying. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Coming to Goa is our way of joining dots. Our first cycling ride in India, some 12 years ago, started on the east coast city of Chennai, to the southern tip, then up the west coast of Kerala, Kochi and ending in Goa. Our second adventure in India was through Rajasthan and such famous fort-cities as Udaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Bikaner and Pushkar. Our third trip started in Delhi and followed many of the places associated with the life of Buddha and then into Nepal's mountainous Pokhara, Kathmandu and the jungles of the Terrai, and then to back to Delphi.

India being a huge land mass and offering a multitude of places to see and experience our trip, is largely designed to connect dots on a map. Starting from Goa, where our first trip ended we will make our way east to Hampi and then points north toward Amritsar, the heart of Punjab and near the Pakistani border, then to the foothills of the Himalayas and back to Delhi. The route is a series of dots on a map, like children playing hopscotch, we will try not to step on places we have been before. A huge limiting factor will be places to stay within a reasonable day's ride, which will be a challenge off the main tourist routes, both in terms of distances between dots and their quality standards.

We are now nearly at the end of our second week, and so far we have managed to join the nearly endless beach communities, north and south of Goa, all with a minimum of effort, having only cycled about a 120 kms in total.

The initial taxi drive from Goa's Dabolim Airport was not only notable for the training the driver received from the descendants of Emperor Hirohito but as an introduction to India and its mysterious ways. Wanting to minimize our environmental impact and save our rupees, given a choice of pre-paid taxis, we asked for non-AC. Not surprisingly, only the more expensive air conditioned cars were available. Having experienced India before, it was no further surprise, that in this near new Toyota, AC was not available: our small but pricy contribution to minimizeing climate change and an opportunity to enjoy through open windows, all that the drive had to offer.

In a similar twisted way we enjoy other convolutions: we ask for toasted bread to be told that they have "bread toast not toasted". In a small eatery, where omelets are served, I ask for a masala omelet to be told only plain omelets are available, to be given one full of onions, vegetables and chillies, which of course is masala!

To our good or misfortune, on arrival we sourced a wonderful map of Goa and our route , locating dozens of beaches and detailed schematics, on how to find them. As if to aid in the decision making, nearly all of the mentioned sun worshiping opportunities have capsule photos, measuring one cm square, each with near identical white sand and blue seas. Being discerning travelers, we are intent on experiencing and are slowly becoming ready for our final exam: to compare and contrast the beaches of Goa. At Candolim beach, to the north I had an opportunity to refresh my early training in Russian, and resist the vendors offering made-to-measure suits and fur jackets. At Colva beach, we enjoyed a more cosmopolitan environment including a stay in a hotel with a huge pool. Further south, at Agonda beach we discovered the later day remnants of hippiedom, with sacred cow yoga practised on the beach with abandon, stayed in a bamboo hut erected each season and had copious cappuccinos at the German Bakery with appropriate breads and other irresistible goodies. Now even further south at Palolem, in a near hidden jungle setting, at the Castle House Hotel, we are deciding which of the beaches to enjoy, where to get a massage and thoughts of doing a training ride, in anticipation of the hills and long riding days, is pushed further and further back. Will our stay be three days, a week, or longer? Its hard to predict. While each beach has its unique features, and wanting to do well on our final exam, we need to do more exploring, while enjoying the commonalities of sun, sand, good food, and all the intense relaxation one can handle.

Enjoying the ride

We are now on the Island of Pangkor, a tropical paradise about 10 kms in length, dotted with white sandy beaches and a handful of settlements with large exclusive gated resorts and the usual modest chalets and small guest houses, where we are staying and endless stalls offering quick foods, blow up beach toys and a gamut of rides and snorkeling opportunities to nearby islets with even more remote beaches and coves.

Our journey to date has been about 750 kms in about 12 riding days, and thankfully, after a near absence of riding for two years, each day has been progressively easier as we get fitter as we steam along. The first few days were the hardest, as I suffered from the “princess and the pea syndrome” with each white stripe on the road feeling like a ride over a washboard; the slightest increase in elevations and/or headwind, akin to the steepest part of Rogers Pass; in the heat of the afternoon, with temperatures approaching 40 C, the passing of a bus or a large truck, provided a welcome breeze and momentary cooling shade; cell towers in the distance, usually on a height of land, were like a mirage, looming large, seemingly never to be reached. And of course, there never seemed to be enough reasons to stop for a momentary rest, whether to take photographs or consume drinks from pristine air-conditioned service stations, where we would down 1.5 liter bottles of water and/or sparkling energy drinks, as if sipping the last mouthful of an ordinary beverage. I think of patenting "Hot spinning" a la hot yoga, who aspire to do four or five consecutive spinning classes on the road each day. Early on, eating was not a culinary choice, but forced feeding to fuel the leg engines as they seemed always running on near empty. The mental strain showed, as I struggled to calculate the distance remaining by subtracting the distance traveled, as indicated on my cycling computer and the highway mileage signs, signalling the kilometers left to our destination.

Each day has become progressively easier, so much so that two days ago, having already covered 60kms, we opted to go onto to the next town, where a hotel with more creature comforts awaited. There is of course nothing more pleasurable, then a cold shower, a good meal and a solid nights sleep after a long days ride. And each day is more memorable for the heightened awareness of the landscape changing from palm oil plantations to rice fields to coconut palms, the variations in size and colours of mosques, and Chinese and Hindu temples, and the people on the road around us who offer friendly honks or thumbs up. Still, the meal stops are the most enjoyable not only for the respite and nourishment, which is always tasty and very inexpensive but rarely predictable, but for the curious looks and questions we elicit as we explain to an amazed audience, that we are cycling from Singapore to Bangkok, a statement that each day, with each reiteration becomes less incredulous and more real and pleasurable to us.

On the road again: from Singapore to Bangkok

It was two years ago, almost to the day that we were cycling on a remote road, in the north-eastern part of Bali, moving at about 5 kms per hour, when a combination of a bump on the road and momentary inattention, sent me falling sideways, landing on my left wrist, which after some dramatic rescue, an X-ray in a local hospital, sent me to a specialist clinic in Denpasar to set a fractured wrist. We continued our journey, sans cycles, only to discover on our return in April to Toronto, that I needed corrective surgery, which occurred later in the summer and as I recovered in the fall, there was no time to ride a bike. Last winter we spent pleasurable months backpacking in central and south America but in my heart I wondered if we would ever cycle again.

Last summer, there were some opportunities to ride in the countryside but somehow it had no great appeal. Either the weather was not cooperative or I found some other activity. In the city, for distances of up to 10 kms I got into the habit of walking, rationalizing that it had more exercise value than getting on a bike for a half hour or so. Clearly, I was resisting riding as a form of exercise.

We spent the last month in Sydney, Australia, where the weather was ideal, but the traffic and poor road conditions once again dissuaded me from getting in the saddle. The rising number of cyclists killed did not help, nor did the fact that there are designated cycling paths on sidewalks, the logic of which I cannot understand.

All this time, I also was reflecting on my various aches and pains, thinking of my body as a used car, with limited mileage left and wanting to preserve it for the open road and the grand cycling adventure. Not that I felt ready for personal challenges of biblical proportions, as in ‘we struggled, we won, lets celebrate’, but I was prepared to give it the good old fashioned second effort, and planned this trip accordingly.

About 14 years ago, we did the trip from Bangkok to Singapore, a distance of some 2,000 kms along the east coast of Malaysia. This year we are doing it in reverse, along the west coast. The choice of the destination had some forethought: both countries are blessed with creature comforts for cyclists: excellent roads, warm and mostly sunny climates, reasonable and good quality accommodations and superb food. Alas, unlike in some of the other less developed south-east Asian countries, there are only first class buses which are most reluctant to transport bicycles, and the train is inland and has few stops, hence there is no plan B or plan C.

This note is coming from Malacca, Malaysia, overlooking the the Strait to Sumatra, with its great strategic value, as evidenced by the ruins left by the Portuguese, Dutch and the British. In five days of riding, we have covered nearly 300kms getting here, and, while tired, and still not totally confident, feeling elated being on the bike again. The heat, headwinds and humidity notwithstanding, the exhilaration of steaming along using only one’s power feels sublime: its about the journey and not the destination.

Canada Post RIP

Being half way around the globe, I learn from The Sydney Morning Herald Digital Edition: Canadians to lose home mail.

Its news, but not unexpected and certainly appropriate as any three year old with a smart phone will tell you: the world is going digital and regular mail is being phased out and no amount of complaining from unions and left-wing politician and chief whiner Olivia Chow, is going to reverse the process.

Perhaps this will also have the positive effect of reducing the amount to junk-mail we receive, including solicitations by unknown charities, who seem to regularly acquire mailing lists.

Its amazing how much of the mail after being away for six months last year, was pure junk, since in our absence we made provisions for all important stuff be delivered on-line. Interestingly, the main exception was notices from our government regarding taxes payable which are still delivered by snail-mail. So much for government efficiency.

Higher postal prices will also I suspect encourage more private sector delivery services, which are often cheaper and faster, as evidenced by their use by most on-line retailers like Amazon.

fond memories from Bardia National Park, Nepal

If you ever visit Nepal, I cannot recommend a better place to stay than Mr. B's in Bardia Natial Park. Below is a letter from the enigmatic Mr. B.who welcomed us like family.

Namaste Andrew Jacob,

This is Mr B and family from Bardia NPark of Nepal. I know it is quit a late to write you an email through out my expecting you may had a good time been here in Bardia specially with us .We are often talk about you and hope to see you again. I know life is not in limitation, there many things to observe and feel in the world but we still hope to see you again. I don't want to miss to share the reality of the tiger population is increasing

in Bardia NPark and I confirm you that it is the only one national park where you have 90% chance to see the tigers in Nepal. the population of the 0ther wild animal also are increasing. I am expecting with you to share this good news including Mr B's Place as well with your friends. I would like to inform you that it is one of the way to introducing

the travellers about Mr B's Place and encourage them to come to stay in here. It will be

great help if you have any kinds of other ways like in website etc.

Good luck and have a wonderful days with fantastic every single nights along the life on.

Best wishes

Mr.B and family from Bardia,Nepal.

Mindo to Peurto Lopez

“When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable” by Rabindranath Tagore, describes the joy of travel: from the magical moments conjured by ancient pyramids and structures that are often the focus of the coloured photos of guide books, to the seemingly more mundane crafts of indigenous people to the taste of a perfectly ripe mango at a local market.

Sometimes however, it’s not some spectacular sight but an alluring descriptor: in this case the availability of real espresso in a small hotel in Mindo that was the catalyst for planning to stay at this particular establishment. As a creature of habit, or more appropriately a forever, soon to be reformed caffeine addict, oh how I miss my morning continental dark coffee piping hot as I try mightily not to let my mind be distracted from the wonders at hand. Not that there is no coffee available in Ecuador, in fact its locally grown and roasted, but the custom of using concentrated essence of coffee, and adding hot water, the result being a tepid black mixture, just does not fully satisfy. So the promise of real espresso in our chosen hotel in Mindo, reawakened the cravings.

Mindo, is a one-horse, dusty little town, a magnet for bird watchers, aficionados of butterflies, chocolate in the making, and orchids, both wild and beautifully cultivated. Alas, my lasting impression is that of a simple authentic espresso, made by Susan the American born, co-owner of Hotel CasKaffesu, delivered splendidly on my expectations. Thankfully, Mindo did make a lasting impression, so when I am sufficiently fortified by my drug of choice, the sight of butterflies emerging, the taste of raw cocoa, and the colours and intricacies of the orchids, do come back with crystal clarity, at least until my next fix.

From Mindo, it was a 13 hour bus ride to Peurto Lopez on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. While unaccustomed to riding buses, especially of such long duration, albeit in three segments, the experience of taking buses turned out to be quite enjoyable.
The roads, rough gravel at times as the bus groans and moans up in first gear and down with breaks screeching, tightly twisted corners, with no guard rails, long views of the hills and valleys once the clouds that hang like pools of cotton baton until the sun burns them off, and the Andes are so dominant that they make a mockery of the roller-coaster rides of country fairs. Beyond the scenery, best are the people, ranging from very young kids coming to or from schools, not yet subject to helicopter parenting, to the elderly, often accompanied by family helpers and carrying telling belongings: produce, pets, animals or well-honed machetes. In between, were the aspirational cellphonated young, and their display of self: dashing young men with glistening, spiked hairdos, reaching for the sky and young women with proud, perky presentations, defying gravity.

Each village has speed bumps slowing vehicles sufficiently to allow groups of men to jump on and off while the bus is still in motion like trapeze artists in training, carrying all manner of local delicacies, which of course must be sampled and explains why there are no formal food stops. I also discover that the least expensive local buses stop very frequently for long, unpredictable periods, surely not union rules, but the whim of the drivers? I get off to stretch and explore when the ticket collector does, and several times I hear Alison shouting, "Andrew" as the bus pulls away, a signal for me hop back on, not quite with the agility of the vendors.

Beyond acrobatic skills, travel also teaches one how to select hotels from guide book descriptions, the mention of espresso being an unambiguous catalyst. However, at times descriptions can be like reading tea leaves. Since we anticipated arriving late in the beach community of Peurto Lopez, after the long bus ride, I called ahead to reserve a room at a highly rated and recommended place called Nantu Hosteria. A woman with perfect English, a real rarity in Ecuador’s hospitality industry, insisted that I email her my passport number and particulars to confirm the reservation. Needless to say, we were somewhat surprised to arrive early evening, to be greeted by a bricklayer, who spoke virtually no English, who did after several attempts, show us a very comfortable room.

The following morning, we discovered that the place was nearly deserted, had annoying ongoing construction and a sense of off-putting officiousness. Walking along the beach road, we soon found and moved to the warm and friendly, family run Hospederia Punta Piedro at half the price, with a huge terrace with hammocks and a commanding view of the fishing harbour and the sea.

Peurto Lopez is one of those places that sadly will be soon discovered by rumoured government infrastructure investments, and spoiled by over-development. For now is a delight for its ramshackle ocean frontage interspersed with eateries, makeshift bamboo bars, souvenir sellers, hotels, broken sidewalks, dusty streets and its benign treatment of tourists. Even touts for tours to the Isla de la Plata, known as the “poor man’s Galapagos”, are content to accept a simple no as a response to offers of tours, or souvenirs and rarely much else, unlike their counter parts of Kuta beach in Bali, where nearly every conceivable thing or service is available. (The actual tour of the Isla de Plata, was a delight: a 40km ride on ocean waves, with sea spray everywhere, in a small boat with twin 110 hp outboard engines might have been enough thrills for the price. However, we also saw migrating whales from a distance, a lifetime full of blue-footed boobies, not to mention some other rare species, giant turtles and snorkeled amongst some truly colourful fish).

Given more time one offer I would love to have accepted, was to go on a fishing trip with Wiston Churchill (sic) who personally runs his tours. He is a larger than life character, suited to his adapted name, who on his return from an early morning trip to the market not only shared a banana with me, but also the usual small-town pleasantries about life, when two strangers meet with limited language skills between them.

As an aside, speaking of being discovered, in the bustling fishing port where in the mornings, small boats come in by the dozens and a whole infrastructure is in place to sort and sell the fish, sometimes over heated negotiation sessions, as foreigners we clearly stood out. It did not take long to learn from another gringo, having exchanged to usual, “where are you from?” and “where have you traveled?”, to learn that a Toronto couple last year purchased an ocean front house for the astonishing low price of about $150,000. The search for retirement nirvana is prevalent in many parts of the world, and it does not take long to learn from other searchers the tax, cost of living, weather and other advantages of Ecuador, the most salient being the cheap prices for real estate. A typical house here sells for around $50 per sq. ft. and condos, for double that. For now, while we can travel on two wheels, or public transit or on two feet, the idea of settling in some foreign spot, especially one with full fencing around a compound, does not yet appeal.

We did however settle after the first morning for a wonderful little cafe, with only four tables, incongruously known as Don Cherry’s, the name of the owner’s husband, after the iconic Canadian hockey personality. We delighted in the warm welcome of his wife Antoinetta who single handed cooks and serves the best five course breakfasts in recent memory. Peurto Lopez is such a sleepy place that neither Antoinetta nor her neighbouring stores had change for the proffered ten dollars. As such we forced, with delight to return the next couple of days to consume the rest of the money, plus some. Such are the unsurpassable moments of travel, not found in guide books that has us longing to return someday to Peurto Lopez and Antoinetta’s, hopefully before it gets discovered.

From Quito Ecuador to Bellavista Cloud Forest Reserve

For months I poured over maps and studied two guidebooks of Ecuador and could not get a sense how we would make our way in seven weeks from Quito, Ecuador to Lima, Peru. Out of frustration I decided to make no decisions about a route, knowing that like a thick fog, the closer you look, the clearer the picture becomes. Unlike our twenty trips to Asia, we are not traveling by bicycles but by public buses. We are also in a new continent, without any previous reference points. Previously I focused largely on finding places a days’ bicycle ride apart with some accommodation. In Ecuador, our route unfolds day by day, with unexpected surprises, which reminds me of the quote from Paul Theroux, “the tourist does not remember where he has been, and the traveler does not know where he is going”.

What is also different is that we are still getting used to carrying our burdens on our backs in packs and not benefiting from the marvelous efficiencies of bikes. Most importantly we are missing the independence of coming and going as we please. There is similarity as with all early days travel, I contemplate how I could reduce the weight, reviewing each item in our bags, and at times concluding some if not all of our belongings should or could be ditched. Perhaps it’s all a progression from homeless hobo?

But there are compensations: a state of wonder, as each day, each hour brings a sense of joy that comes from all the stimuli of traveling in a new land, with language skills that hardly extend beyond two important expressions, “Mas café” and “mas cerveca”. The feeling of confidence increases as we learn to appreciate the genuine warmth of the people and truly wondrous sights, from man-made to the perfection of nature.

In Quito, we stayed in Hotel Portal de Cantuna, which from the moment of our arrival felt like home. This giant former mansion, converted less than a year ago to a 13 room boutique hotel, with all the features from 150 years ago retained, owned and operated by Julia and her son Bernardo. She would hug and kiss at each opportunity, especially as she prepared breakfast in an open kitchen, and the son, who could not have been more helpful and took us by the hand to arrange our cell phone, give directions to the trolleys that were packed like sardines and making sure the taxi we got, is not one that would have us being robbed, which is a constant warning in guide books. Of course, if one heeded all the warnings about crime, robberies, muggings, theft, ailments from food and water, health hazards, extreme events of nature, the potential riots and other civil insurrection, like most people, one could always choose the sensible alternative and stay close to home and wait for the ceiling to fall down.

In Quito, we were a few steps from the Plaza and Church of San Francisco, dating from the 16th century that rivals anything one might see in Europe, except that it was hardly mobbed by people allowing us to appreciate the grandeur and simplicity of its Franciscan denomination. In contrast, the Iglisia de la Compania de Jesus, built over a 150 year period, starting in 1605, was gilded by 200 tons of gold, enough to take ones breath away figuratively, and climbing the steep bell tower of the Basilica, left us breathless from the climb and the splendid panoramic view below.

The experiences which could be an hourly account are far too numerous to detail, and yet each brought the sense of “reality” unlike those obtained on the various television channels that try to compress to 60 minute segments on a two dimensional screen, that which has sounds, smells, sights, texture and most importantly that sense of surprise of not quite knowing what’s around the corner or experiences awaiting from one minute to the next.

We witnessed the regular Monday morning changing of the Presidential guards, with all the pomp and ceremony of movies of my childhood, as the brass bands blared and the soldiers in brass fittings and blue uniforms, as if modeled after the lead soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, marched and raised the flag on the Presidential Palace with the roaring approval of the crowd, which surprisingly included a large group of protesting union workers, who at one point earlier looked like might challenge representatives of the variety of police forces present.

After wondering the cobble stoned streets of this ancient city for two days, a short bus ride took us to Otavalo, known for its handy crafts, exported worldwide made by various indigenous groups. Our stay in a hotel named for the town was a delight, with a classic open court design, with rooms facing the courtyard, since we were the only guests on arrival, we got a large, quiet room in the back, with a huge window facing Cotopaxi volcano.

As further good fortune, out of curiosity we visited a community development organization called Runa Tupari Native Travel, where a German volunteer, Martin, who has lived and worked in South America for the last five years, gave us his subjective view of places worthy of visit, which happened to coincide with our own values. As a result we developed a plan to reach the coast, and avoid the very touristy town of Banos and find not only an alternative, but get off the main tourist path.

One day we did a guided tour of artisans making straw mats, jewellery, weavings, art and wooden objects, using methods developed over the centuries applying amazing skills at hourly rates that are less than minimum wage in the cities. (For example a large straw mat, about three hours of labour would sell for about four dollars or a hand spun and dyed woolen scarf, which took days to make sold for $15.). Sadly, in our homeless state, and firm resolve not to carry even an additional ounce of weight, we had to limit our purchases to two pairs of earrings bought only to support a wonderful community project.

Speaking of weight, the one along my belt-line is expanding as lunch and dinner seems to consist of, some and most of the time all of my favourite starches: potatoes, usually fried, giant kernels of corn, popped, roasted, boiled or on the cob, plantains, and beans, accompanied by other vegetables and generous portions of meat, that being the mains; starters are soups of all or some of the above ingredients, plus cream. These five course fixed-price meals range from three to five dollars.

Unlike in many Asian countries, where exchanging a few hundred dollars US, makes one an instant local millionaire, in Ecuador the US buck is the national currency and as such one is more aware of prices. Unlike in Asia where the currency of choice is the crisp $100 note and is most sought after, in Ecuador even a $10 note results in a plea for something smaller as most of our dealings are with small business and smaller denomination coins are in short supply. Virtually none of the banks would change large bill, and only do so one at a time - but thankfully we discovered that larger supermarkets were happy to take large bills, so we need not go hungry.

In Otavalo we stayed for the famous Saturday market that takes over nearly the whole town with endless vendors occupying the main streets displaying all the goods and handicrafts that one can imagine. Best however was the animal market where locals and tourist mingled and the bargaining was at a feverous pitch when sheep, pigs, chickens, cows, bulls and horses where changing hands.

Near Otavalo we had an overnight stay in a rural hacienda with a local indigenous family (in quite luxurious accommodations) where we helped with the cows and vegetable crops, attended an outdoor church service with men in blue ponchos, long black hair in braids, often reaching their hip, wearing white pants and fedoras.; the women in black skirts, white colourfully embroidered blouses, beads, head wear and also jet black braids -so special to see and experience, especially when we were invited to a huge community feast of chicken and corn, rice and potatoes to celebrate a musical competition in which our hosts daughter participated.

Our next destination was Nangulvi, barely mentioned in guide books a true oasis with wonderful hot springs. The community-run hacienda where we stayed gave us full access to the hot springs, the rope bridge and a hike up the gorge. It was a tremendous deal: a cabin facing a raging river, and three authentic meals, the cost for two was only $40. Arriving on Sunday, there was a bit of a buzz from locals around the five pools of varying degrees of hot water. But by Monday morning we had the place to ourselves and the kitchen went out of their way to assure our comfort and feed us to the max, so much so that at 12:30 we were still eating lunch, when the waitress informed us that our one o’clock bus had already passed. We grabbed out backpacks and rushed to the roadside hoping against all odds that she was wrong, as the next bus, for the two hour ride to Chontal, was the following evening.

Contemplating whether to hitch a ride or stay another day, another bus (or the one we originally anticipated) arrived five minutes later and we were on our way to Chontal where we were told we would have to overnight before continuing our journey. A casual inquiry on arrival clarified that indeed there was a connecting bus, and it materialized in less than five minutes, and much to our delight we were on our way to Nanegalitos, from where we took a four wheel drive truck to the famous Bellavista Cloud Forest Reserve.

Chapters could be written on riding local buses, as they are the best metaphors for the lands that they cover and the communities that they bind together. People hop off and off at will anywhere along the routes, carrying all conceivable goods and implements and often greet each other as if family, which they may well be. Best are the small kids, some surely no more than four or five years of age, clutching their nickel fares, who are often dropped at some remote mountain dirt trail, and in their immaculate uniforms they scamper up on steep trails as experienced mountain goats. There is hardly greater joy on a kid’s face, when some conductors refuse their payment.

Bellavista Cloud Forest Reserve is a private eco-reserve founded by a British ecologist to preserve prime cloud forests through his efforts, and that of a foundation. As one might expect it is a quite magical setting and the staff warm and amazingly knowledgeable and we thoroughly enjoyed our stay in a cabin, overlooking a canopy of trees and our three guided hikes through the cloud forest. We saw plenty hummingbirds and some rare avian species, but not being ’’birders’’ we did not fully appreciate the rarities and after two nights, looked forward to the lower altitudes of Mindo and the continuation of our magical, mystery tour.

A Year of Living Homelessly

‘Homeless’ is how I have been describing my current state, albeit not the young frequently seemingly healthy panhandlers outside coffee shops. I am fortunately in reasonable physical shape for a male in his late sixties, arthritic joints excepted, non-smoking, married and of fairly sound mind but currently without a home, admittedly out of choice and not necessity. In fairness, perhaps my wife Alison’s depiction, “home-free” is more apt, as we sold our house, which had been home for about 31 years, last December. Since then we have traveled though South-East Asia and Australia for 4 months and upon our return to Toronto in April, we have been house-sitting in Toronto and nearby cottage country. This mobile life-style has many advantages, the main one being the complete sense of freedom it has given us, and we hope to replicate, at least for the next year or so.

 Downsizing from a three-story house with five bedrooms and four bathrooms to a 10’ by 17’ climate controlled storage unit, (not that we are living in it, as yet), took some effort and adjusting, not the least of which was what to do with all the years of accumulated STUFF that had anchored us physically and emotionally. Reasons for selling, beyond the obvious size consideration, were in part the feeling that the seemingly inexorable rise in house prices fueled by the press as measured by numerous house-porn articles, and the crescendo of cocktail party speculative chatter, had to at some point abate. More importantly, it was the growing realization that over that last twenty years, as avid bicycle tourists, Alison and I had been quite content to travel our planet for months at a time with four rather small saddle bags and on returning home, experiencing the startling contrast of being burdened by a house needing constant attention, a house full of possessions that had less and less meaning over time.

 Craigslist was of limited help in the unburdening process: some old electronics and a set of snow tires on rims sold rather expeditiously. Books, household gadgets and the usual array of dust collectors, of which we had tons, often duplicates, became objects of give-away parties, where we invited friends with the understanding that they had to take some item as a token of their appreciation of being fed and/or wined and dined. Despite heroic efforts, the countless items hidden in plain sight or in drawers and cupboards necessitated endless trips to the nearest Goodwill store where I became a recognized habitué. A few antiques were accepted by a consignment store and numerous pieces of furniture(which were surplus to our needs, as we only kept items to eventually fill a one-bedroom apartment), went near gratis to friends or to the Furniture Bank, which gives a tax donation for the “value” of the item. The value of the said items seems to equal what they charge to remove them.

 Since our return about six months ago we have lived comfortably in homes and cottages graciously offered to us by friends and acquaintances. Having no fixed address, other than our mail going to a friend’s home does have some challenges. For decades, we had had email accounts with our cable provider Rogers, but they could not provide email service without a fixed physical location, so we switched to web-based Gmail. Similarly, our land-line numbers were transported to cellphones. As a consequence, I joined the 21st century with an unlimited data plan smart phone, which costs less than a land-line and allows me not only to stay in touch wherever I am, but as a bonus, to be connected to the internet as well.


Beyond practical considerations, I am often asked if we miss having a place of our own, or not sleeping in my own bed. The answer is an overwhelming no! There are the obvious things that I do not miss: paying for a mortgage, utilities, insurance, permits, cable, internet, property and utility taxes etc. that go with owning property. I also have no fond memories of all the maintenance and related issues that go with being a proud home owner: fixing roofs, driveway, painting, leaky basements and the myriad of small things that seem to require time, skills or reasonably priced and reliable tradesmen, all in short supply. I have also got used to not having to face the relationship testing discussions like “when are we going to do such and such?” Then there are the perennial issues of updating appliances, kitchens, bathrooms, gardens etc. and the furnishings to go with them, to give us the sense of well-being and approval of our peers. The homes that we stayed in varied in size and design, proud testaments to their owners. Each house provided some novel features and new neighborhoods to enjoy and explore, like luxury B&Bs, on the road of our travels.

 Ironically, as we become experienced, and appreciated house-sitters, with excellent references, I now take pride in doing some repairs in the homes we stay in: fixing doors, leaking taps, chipped sinks, and with a bit of judicious use of force and logic, even making good a massive garage door, not to mention watering gardens, looking after pets, driving the owners to the airport and stocking the fridge with food on their return. We also enjoy replacing ancient clock radios, dull knives and semi-working toasters and kettles that their owners just never got around to doing, a behavior pattern that are reminders of my own past procrastinations.

 Having a storage unit full of possessions is a mixed blessing. Our mover Tony did such a fabulous job of stacking our belongings like a giant Rubik’s cube, that short of unpacking the whole unit, we are denied access beyond the first layer of boxes and a few seasonal clothes and items that we had the foresight to keep handy. It has been nearly a year since our move and we have slowly forgotten the contents of the countless boxes, and have done perfectly well without them. We are constantly dismayed by all the stuff that we still own but have not used and are happy to do without. We are content with our modest traveling possessions and are extremely reluctant to buy anything but consumables lest we add to our hoard and duplicate something we already own.

Still, there have been some adjustments. We discovered quite early in our house-sitting moves that we could not enjoy drinking coffee from a random selection of fine bone china or beer mugs, so we each succumbed to purchasing Dollar Store mugs of pleasing size and shape. Likewise, we are now proud owners of a brand new can opener, carrot peeler and an ultra-sharp ceramic knife, as well as a large plastic salad bowl and a garage sale purchase of delicately carved set of wooden servers from South Africa to go with it – all of which now travel with us from house to house as part of our house-sitting essentials. .

We are off on a six month adventure to Ecuador, Peru, Australia and Guatemala and looking forward to house-sitting, perhaps your home next April, so do keep a list of the things that may need fixing. The anticipation of traveling in cooler and wetter climes has also prompted me to buy a couple of long sleeved shirts and a fleecy from my favorite Goodwill store, which after our travels will be donated to some worthy cause.

reflections

We went back to a small beach community Jemeluk where we had stayed 15 years ago.Of course it had grown immensely and with all the choices for accommodation, none seem just right.After some looking, at the end of the village, a well-built young man, obviously a fisherman, as opposed to a tout who gets a commission for renting a place, invited us to look at his rooms.

Down a dirt path we went for about 150 meters, through a field, past the small black pig tied with a rope, past the chickens and two brown cows to a wall with a small opening that led to two bungalows, in front of which was a small open café and all of this no more than 30 feet from the stormy Bali Ocean.

The room was obviously just built and had crisp white linen with a huge four poster bed.I knew this was the perfect place for us. I asked about the rate and with only a smile and a hint for a discount, the $12 a night rate with breakfast, seemed like a gift.

It was only when we were moving into the room that I noticed a neatly monogramed towel “Papa’s Home Stay”.

Later in the small eatery, sipping a hot ginger tea, the wind blowing, the white caps dancing, the local children running around freely,I had tears of joy. I had come home.

My father, whose birthday is today, was called "Papa".

Bali Sanur to Tanah Lot

Having flown across the Pacific on 17 hour flights on numerous occasions, the short hop from Perth to Bali was perfectly uneventful, other than it was via the no frills airline Jet Star, that charges for everything, plastic sandwiches, blankets and $10 per movie on tiny hand held tablet computers, but to my relief not for the use of toilet… yet. Somewhat incongruously we ate our home-made smoked salmon sandwiches to the slight amusement of the entirely Asian staff.

On our arrival we cleared immigration quite quickly as the woman agent, with full Muslim head covering, barely took notice of us as she had a cellphone discretely tucked against her ear and was in full conversation the whole time, easing the transition from formal Australia to the ways of the island of Bali.

We were met at the airport as arranged, and a small pickup truck, with me and the bikes in the back, were quickly delivered to our Sunhouse Guesthouse. Alas, it being overcast and very humid, it did not live up to that sunny part of the expectations, otherwise its a charming family place, air con and hot water, when there is power, including WiFi throughout, and it helps that I can sit outside looking at the small pool and sip a cup of tea, from the help-yourself kitchen.

Riding in a pickup gives a very different first impression of a place than one gets from the glossy brochures with gleaming white sandy beaches. In heavy traffic I enjoyed the buzz of scooters around our car and noted how friendly and curious the drivers were of this stranger amongst there mist; I was also too aware of the large pools of water that collected by the sides of roads, reminding me that it’s the rainy season, and my profound distaste for riding in rain.

The shock of the heat and humidity and the pollution added to the feeling of weariness despite or perhaps being immediately transported to a different milieu and not quite knowing where we were. However, after unloading bikes and bags, we headed to the beach, where some locals were playing ball and others pulling in colourful, narrow wooden canoes with stabilizers after a day of fishing.

A night market was just starting up and I could not resist the invitation for roasted corn on the cob from a woman who had a tiny clump of charcoal simmering. When I ordered two, she with a big smile and vigorous effort fanned the flame, filling the air with sparks and that unmistakeable aroma of charcoal. Within a few minutes she was waving at us as the corns were ready, their smoky flavour enhanced by copious butter and in my case hot chillies, applied with a brush.

The feeling of wellbeing started at that moment and we slowly made the transition and started to discover why Bali is referred to as the Land of the Gods. Having been here 15 years ago, the changes are all too obvious, and like people before us, we can tell the first-timers, I remember when Sanur beach was... For ourselves, I try to keep in check, the inevitable expectations from before and to appreciate the here and now.

Signs of progress include the usual new hotels, eateries and simply more of the same. Given all the choices, from fish and chips to pizza, sushi etc. that first night, and many times since, we had the simplest of Indonesian staples, Nasi Goring which is enjoyed by the locals for breakfast, lunch and dinner and it too helped make the connection to this place.

The first day was spent putting the bikes together, (at least an hour) walking around, getting a local SIM card,buying drinks and having lunch overlooking the beach and the sea.

Having gotten a slow start, we were determined to perfect the technique, and booked another two nights stay at another hotel, (ours being full) slightly more upmarket, with a much larger pool and an irresistible offering of a buffet breakfast, albeit we had not earned the rights to consume as had done zero kilometers on the bicycles.

On the fifth day, having built up caloric reserves, we headed to the famous seaside temple of Tanah Lot. I had given some thought to our route, as it meant going through the capital city of Denpasar, and heeding the warning of guidebooks of impossible traffic, and yet we found the dreaded bypass road, to be perfectly smooth, and traffic well behaved, certainly compared to places like India and other parts of South-East Asia. The one regret was that in focusing on the ride, I did not stop to take a photo of the sign advertising “ANTIQUES, MADE TO ORDER”, a motto that continues to resonate as we continue trying to differentiate the real or authentic Bali from the made to order Bali experience, in luxury villas, with private pools etc.

Sadly, even the trusted bible of the backpacker and off the beaten traveler has bought into the crass theater of the "Bali experience",which can only be considered as conspicous consumption, such that the Lonely Planet is now calling the Four Seasons and similar hotels as its TOP CHOICE, at prices starting at $800 per night.

Paul Theroux’s comment seems so appropriate, "Luxury is the enemy of observation, a costly indulgence that induces a good feeling that you notice nothing. Luxury spoils and infantilizes you and prevents you from knowing the world".

In contrast, we have had perfectly comfortable accommodations, ranging from $15 to $30 per night, often in small family establishments where the smiles and welcome were genuine. We also had the ability to compare and contrast places to stay, gently negotiate prices until a place said “hello”. In Tanah Lot, we stayed at Dewi Sinta, that same comfortable hotel, overlooking the pool, where we stayed 15 years ago, but LP no longer deems it worthy of mention.

Beyond the souvenir sellers, the temple and the jagged coastline is still magical and the army of instant photographers did a rip-roaring business, as all the Indonesian tourists wanted to have their pictures taken of us with them, and we became part of their authentic experience in a quest to know the world?

On the malaise of modernity

Perth, Australia, December 31, 2011

I recall with nostalgia, the days when I awaited with some anticipation the annual letters of distant friends that highlighted with wit and nostalgia events that transpired for them and their families, during the previous year. As this year is about the end, in contrast, its with some apprehension that I contemplate this blog, aware that many have asked if I will “blog” our travels to Australia, Indonesia, Malaysia and Taiwan this year and deciding what it is that I really want to say. For now at least, since I am comfortably ensconced in Perth Australia, our second home, or perhaps more correctly our first and only home, since we have sold our house in Toronto and all of our earthly possessions, other than our touring bicycles and minimal amount of gear with which we travel now reside, in a 10’x 17’climate controlled storage unit in Toronto, in what was formerly a factory that manufactured widgets, I feel the onus of what to write about acutely, in our rapidly changing world.

I am much too aware, that in this age of desk top, lap top, note-book and net book computers, not to mention the pervasiveness of smart phones, tablets, and the advent of social media and countless apps, communication is increasing at an exponential rate and yet I find that most messages are correspondingly denuded of content. Devices as status symbols are becoming the message as witnessed by the little signature lines that proudly state that the message was brought to you courtesy of some i-phone, i-pad, berry or some variant of an android attesting to the smarts of the owner.

While not quite a Luddite, since I own a most basic cell phone, and travel with a netbook, I am aware that majority of people are content answering the most frequent of questions in their communication: “where are you”? and “what are you doing?” I have a need to express, if anyone cares, what I am thinking and feeling and of course long to hear from others beyond the simple indication of where they are located and what particular activity they are engaged in.

Travel has always been an eye opener for me, especially over the last nearly two decades, in the less economically developed parts of the world and the influence of technology on our behaviour and our values.

I recall being in Israel in the early 1970s, and people lamenting how prior to the prevalence of telephones, friends and family used to arrive unannounced and were entertained spontaneously. Today, I am told that in some contexts its considered impolite or intrusive to telephone someone without arranging for a telephone conference time by some other device.

I am also old enough to remember the great European tradition of coffee houses, where the cadre of intellectuals and the romantically inclined would while away hours discussing some important matter of state, possibly the next revolution or some revolutionary romance, as the case may be. Today, coffee houses are virtually devoid of any conversation as the focus is on the keyboard at hand, or perhaps on intrusive cell phone conversation.

I can also recall the days when going to a gym meant some interaction with people and when it was common practice to exchange greetings on the street. Now with i-tunes most people are plugged in and tuned out, oblivious to the world around them.

Another effect of technology is that we are googelized, and no longer experience the world directly, but filtered through some technology that allows us to live vicariously from second hand information that we can so readily collect from cyberspace. No need to experience the snow, sun, rain or humidity when the trusted device provides minute by minute updates. The world of opinion leaders and reviews can tell us what to eat, read, watch and consume, and if need be, most or all our needs can be delivered to the comfort of our homes. If we do venture out we can fully expect that peak, perfect experience we have had the opportunity of googelizing to a predictable pablum like pulp.

The advent of all enabling technologies also have social consequences that reinforce patterns of dependent behaviour. Cell phones initially were sold as communication devices to be used in cases of emergency. Now we have become so fearful of not being able to communicate where we are and what we are doing at all times, that even seven year old children must have the latest smart phones, so parents can helicopter over them and protect them from all manner of perceived evils that may befall them. Needless to say, with a heightened awareness of the dangers of the world, children no longer walk to school, take public transit, play on the streets but join their parents, safely cocooned indoors: kids glued to their video games and the parents to so called “reality” TV shows or spreading the latest disease of inane videos to go even more viral.

While travelling on two wheels on the back roads of south-east Asia is not a complete or by any means the only anti-dote to escaping the malaise of modernity, it is a step in the right direction. The world is a far safer, warmer, more welcoming and exciting place, than the dependency inducing self-indulging technologies would have one believe.

It is still possible to have unique, unanticipated “aha” experiences by leaving behind the creature comforts of our confines. However, time is running short. As we in the economically advanced world are quertying away much about nothing, oblivious to others around us, the planet is being blanketed by the same devices and there are no guarantees that our world will be a safer and happier place for it. Au contraire, given the recent experiences of the Arab Spring and the Occupy Movements demonstrate, anyone with or without a legitimate case can cause governments to topple or the rights of democratically elected peoples to be trampled upon. Worse, anyone can produce a device of mass destruction causing much more than minor social disruption. Do I hear the clarion of anarchists to unite? But that’s another story. Happy New Year.
‘

Reflections

Three weeks ago, Alison and I decided to sell the house I have lived in for nearly 31 years, which needless to say involved a great deal of de-cluttering,selling most of our furniture and letting go of STUFF, which no doubt in our newly found lightened, if not enlightened but homeless state, will allow us the freedom the explore more.

It is as if I have to let go of the past to make room for the future.

As I applied this principle of making room on my computer's C Drive, I came across the piece below that I wrote on the occasion of the tragic death of two infant boys.

LIFE AND IMPERMANENCE

All life is impermanent. We are all children of the Earth, and, at some time, she will take us back again. We are continually rising from Mother Earth, being nurtured by her, and then returning to her. Plants are born, live for a period of time, and then return to the Earth and in doing so, they nurture our gardens. We humans are unique in our knowledge of our own immortality, and our ability to deal with our own passing through reason. We also have choices about and some sense of what we leave behind.

Today we are here to reflect on the passing of two souls who did not yet have the awareness of the meaning of life. We are also here to comfort two parents and in some way all of us, who have the ability to reflect on the imponderable question of “why”.

Leslie and Susan from their meeting and deciding to share their lives, from their determined plans to have a family, from their earliest knowledge of life having been formed, from the moment of knowing there were two fertilized eggs, to the surprise of anticipating two tiny males, with each passing week watching them grow, planning for their care, the myriad of details, its hard to conceive of two beings more anticipated by two parents than whose passing we are here to observe today…alas, they are no more.

We are grieving with Leslie and Susan… for what might have been: the hands they longed to touch, the faces they longed to kiss. Their arms hold no small lives; their hearts are filled with sadness. We are all confounded by the overwhelming sense of loss of never seeing the world through four eyes and two inquiring minds, to not knowing what they might have looked like, what they might have thought and what legacy they might have left behind.
Our rational minds crave order. We have a tendency to think that life is a linear progression, where we go from A to B to C and so on, and if don’t get to B we can't get to C. Events like this, tell us that order can be an illusion. If we think carefully about our own lives, we know that the pattern of our past is often serendipitous and accidental as when fertilization formed the miracle of two lives; and the mystery of why they are no more. We don't know why.
Perhaps our challenge in life is not to know precisely where we are going, but to prepare ourselves so when those wonderful moments of serendipity occur or when we are confronted with mysterious painful ones, such as the passings we are observing today, at times like these we can listen to our hearts and know what it is we need to do. So in remembering the loss of two tiny souls, let us reflect on the joys, the excitement, the anticipation, let us remember how their possibility fertilized our imaginations and hope that their memory will yet take us to a higher plane, where our hearts can roam free and where we can listen to the little voices inside all of us. Life is impermanent; memories live for ever.


September 23, 2003

Finally, our trip in Northern India and Nepal

As the first taste of winter has arrived in Toronto, and am planning this year's winter getaway,I am reminded that I left the blog incomplete. I have no excuse. Below is our route, should anyone like to follow our fading tire tracks.

INDIA

January 8 – February 15, 2011

Date Destination Distance
Km
Jan 7 Perth - Kuala Lumpur 0
Jan 7 Delhi 0
Jan 8 Delhi - Gurgaon 0
Jan 9 Palwal 72
Jan 10 Vrindavan 87
Jan 11 Vrindavan 20
Jan 12 Agra 78
Jan 13 Agra 0
Jan 14 Agra 0
Jan 15 Agra 0
Jan 16 Dhaulpur 61
Jan 17 Gwalior 69
Jan 18 Datia 76
Jan 19 Orchhe 50
Jan 20 Orchhe 0
Jan 21 Nowgong 110
Jan 22 Khajaraho 71
Jan 23 Khajaraho 0
Jan 24 Khajaraho 0
Jan 25 Panna 47
Jan 26 Satna 73
Jan 27 Chittrakoot 83
Jan 28 Chittrakoot 0
Jan 29 Allahabad 137
Jan 30 Allahabad 0
Jan 31 Mirzapur 95
Feb 1 Varanasi 67
Feb 2 Varanasi 0
Feb 3 Varanasi 0
Feb 4 Varanasi 0
Feb 5 Varanasi 0
Feb 6 Varanasi 0
Feb 7 Sarnath 18
Feb 8 Sarnath 0
Feb 9 Sarnath 0
Feb 10 Sarnath 0
Feb 11 Sarnath 0
Feb 12 Gazipur 72
Feb 13 Dohrighat 81
Feb 14 Kushinagar 92
Feb 15 Gorakpur 57
TOTAL 1,516

1,516km in 21 full cycling days = 72km per day (average)

NEPAL

Feb 16 Sunali 100
Feb 17 Lumbini 26
Feb 18 Lumbini 15
Feb 19 Butwal 46
Feb 20 Tansen 40
Feb 21 Waling 62
Feb 22 Pokara 62
Feb 23 Pokara 0
Feb 24 Pokara 0
Feb 25 Bandipur
Feb 26 Bandipur
Feb 27 Malekhu 76
Feb 28 Kathmandu 46
Mar 1 Kathmandu 0
Mar 2 Kathmandu 0
Mar 3 Kathmandu 0
Mar 4 Kathmandu 0
Mar 5 Kathmandu 0
Mar 6 Kathmandu 0
Mar 7 Kathmandu 0
Mar 8 Kathmandu 0
Mar 9 Kathmandu 0
Mar 10 Kathmandu 0
Mar 11 Daman 0
Mar 12 Daman 0
Mar 13 Heteuda 57
Mar 14 Sauraha 74
Mar 15 Sauraha 0
Mar 16 Narayanghat 24
Mar 17 Butwal 118
Mar 18 Chatauta 66
Mar 19 Lahami 60
Mar 20 Kohalpur 118


1,136km in 18 full cycling days = 63km per day (average)


INDIA RIVISITED

Mar 27 Radrapur 100
Mar 28 Moradabad 75
Mar 29 Ghaziabad 14
Mar 30 Ghaziabad - IGI Airport 0
Mar 31 Toronto 0
TOTAL 189


GRAND TOTAL: India + Nepal 2,841km in 42 full cycling days = 68km per day