The early dark hours of the next leg of my journey found me monsooned in the camp while rain pattered on the steel roof, and I laughed at my predicament. I lumbered with little sleep after a late night celebrating at Dharma Swasti with three women I had met in Auroville from Switzerland, Sweden and Canada. Warm around the fire eating curry, paneer, drinking punch and telling stories. This international city had become homely and accepting during my stay here, and if I were to sum it up in one word it would be ‘unlimited’. The feeling that anything was possible, and something new and novel happened everyday. I was accepted here with all my own historic karma where I met others with chapters of their own, sometimes dark sometimes light, and I left with a reserve full of stories that would be carried on this journey, like the saddlebags that were fastened tight to my roaring chariot.
Now I was soaking wet through my air pilot-cum-riding suit and puttering through Pondicherry in the early dawn hours. I pulled off the ECR, to refit my wardrobe and put on an extra layer of trousers, my hands were already stained black from the leather riding gloves. The portentous sights of the morning were rather grim and foreboding and there was a lot of death on the roads, accented by the gloom of the skies; a crow with it’s wing seeming to want to fly off the pavement while its carcass lay broken on the pavement, a cat that had all but been rendered unrecognizable as its soaked furry body was flattened down, then something that violently disturbed my attention on the road as my eyes caught sight of a kind of pilon made of branches with a colored cloth tied to it, beyond this makeshift road block, I witnessed a dead man lying on the road quite obviously from an accident, and later was passed by a rushing ambulance going the opposite way. Little did this seem to affect the foregoing traffic, thinking it may realistically make other drivers just slightly more cautious. One of the Ashok Leyland buses nearly side swiped me, and it was rare that I held my own lane, often with lorries and government vehicles passing in the oncoming, while others passed even still beside them, forcing me onto the sand strewn shoulders as I hoped that my offerings to Ganesh were good enough to keep me safe despite the crazy roads.
Reaching the southern country it was here I encountered my first wild boar sightings. The first one I did see had actually just been caught by some Tamil men and was being tied up by the roadside, as my bike whirred past, it gave a loud guttural squeal and tensed its whole body upwards. The grating sound of its struggle frightened me a little and I wobbled the bike momentarily as this sensation entered me. Some large black boars later crossed in front of me, and I mentally added a new animal hazard to my ever growing list of dangers on the road. Though I saw no tusks, I assumed they could easily disturb a motorcycles trajectory. Passing through Perambular and Tiruchirapalli, crossing the legendary Kaveri river, then into some drier uplands that reminded me of the chaparral of Mexico, I took time to appreciate the untamed landscape and new vegetation in my landscape. I stopped at a cluster of tables set up by the highway where some locals were having breakfast, and sat with them eating the biggest dosas I’ve ever had with spiced chutney.
Motoring higher in elevation through Dindigul, and the switchback routes leading into Kodaikanal, I was greeted by my simian friends who stared incessantly from every stone wall, and pocket of jungle. Their faces mirrored expressions ranging from amazement, to exasperation, to threat, awe and resent. Who knew you could get all this from a monkey? It seemed like they may at any time leap onto the moving bike, while older primates with scarred faces seemed to loathe my existence as they chewed some unappetizing tack from the forest. I watched a mother ripping open a pack of bread with its baby clinging to her bosom, so frail and naked.
The sights, sounds and colors that impressed upon me in Kodaikanal were a higher dose more than I had set myself up for. Spice markets and choclatiers on every street, stalls selling eucalyptus oil, herbed wines, and barbeque restaurants. The resorts and guesthouses were higher up with panoramic views of the hustling hill station of Kodai. The trucks blared their obnoxious singing horns, and the throbbing city action gave me a short lived energy injection. The roads were almost unthinkably steep for a two wheeler and at times I had to question my map, while I resorted to pacing up the badly crumbling paths in second gear with my feet out to catch my balance. Perched up at 2100 meters I labored into my hostel lodgings an hour before sunset and parked beside a trio of Royal Enfields, it seemed I had found the bikers rest. I opted not to wait for the hostel dinner, and so hoofed it back into the downtown for some sustenance. I settled on a veg restaurant called Astoria and ate heartily of the Gobi Manchurian gravy they offered with steaming naan bread.
In the morning I met a man from Germany who had also ridden from Auroville on a similar route to mine, along with his pillion rider from the Netherlands. We all wanted to find somewhere for hiking away from the usual tourist beat. This would not be the easiest prospect to fulfill despite being surrounded by mountains and mostly virgin eucalyptus forest. Most of the land was under the reserve protection and we would need special permission from the forest division to even enter it. Most tourists went to the Dolphin Nose where a jutting boulder reached out over a cliff, and tantalizing offered good photo opportunities. After studying the map I noticed a trail leading down from here into the Vellagavi forest and we though we would try the descent route anyways. We rode in convoy on roads that were badly in ruin, and did a number on the shock suspension while it took us twenty five minutes to cover only eight kilometers. In Vattakanal where the trailhead to the Dolphin Nose started, it felt like we had actually rode into Israel. There were predominately Israelis, middle eastern restaurants offering falafel, hummus and shakshuka, and even the signs were in their language. It seemed this was the place they all gathered after their service in the military. Most of them looked like burned out hippies with dreadlocks and wool shawls draped around their shoulders, and they all seemed to be the same age. A rather disorienting cultural experience, in the heart of Tamil society.
After kind of clambering down the rooted trail past Dolphin Nose and Echo rock, we found the blazed path that led further into the Vellagavi, but a watchman urged us from continuing. “Not possible to go”, “illegal to walk”, “No foreigners to village”, he beckoned while we were dismayed and a little bemused at his remarks. Upon asking why, we would simply get a repetition of these answers, so I tried a different method to pursue our journey and went back up to speak with him, man to man. I explained I had no business in the town and we were eager to hike on some trails without so seeing so much litter. He seemed to listen more intently despite the language barrier, as I explained my occupation in forestry, which might have rung a chime or two in his own heart. He finally acquiesced, and subtly insisted we should return before 4:30, at the end of his sentinel shift. We wasted no time with this new privilege and continued our hike where probably few tourists have been committed. I had hoped to meet some bison or elephants but did not have the good fortune to see them today, though I did catch a sight of the giant grizzled squirrel, which was nearly the size of a dog. Women carrying huge bundles on their head walked barefoot down the trail at a much faster canter than us, while men led a duo of horses carrying firewood at a firm but steady clop. This was the only trail in and out of a small village lower down in the plains, and I contemplated the industrious efforts of hauling in cargo, food, and materials each and every time a need for resources was made. There would be no vehicles in the village, and the only locomotion would be by foot, a fascinating prospect to think of in times of such advanced and modern means of transportation.
One morning a team of bison wandered into the garden of the hostel, happily chewing whatever was in their way. Huge beasts of burden, and some of the only animals that had not been tamed in the Indian country. One of the bulls had a blind white eye and stared in complete defiance at us, chewing its cud.
The nights brought the fog and misting rain, and I finally had a use for my winter toque, wool sweater and newly acquired shawl. I ate spicy thali to warm up, and chatted with the Indian tourists as they came in fleets and took over the hostel beds. So many tourists in their own country was something I had not found in any other place of the world, save for my own homeland of Canada. Miraculously I got some mushrooms too and stored them with my cardamom seeds for a special occasion. The other days preceded without elaboration, as I perused the burgeoning market bazaar in search of proper coffee, beautifully dyed tunics, and forest produce. Here I was happy to just be, and not concern myself with manual work. I stocked up on ingredients to make my own healthy gruels and rice pots while traveling, and tried to keep a preference for local foods; cashews, groundnut butter, papaya, tree tomatoes, guavas, tangerines, turmeric, lemon pickle, cinnamon bark, and bitter cacao. These I would find immensely useful as I planned to seek a camp 20km out of Kodaikanal during the next few days.
A chance encounter with a man named Baloo (like the Jungle book bear) inspired me towards the more remote hill country where he had a camp called Spice Valley. This would also give me an opportunity to use my hammock which I bought in Auroville, and there was the possibility to stay in a treehouse. What else could I ask for? A mountain refuge with a treehouse, on site of a 200 acre organic plantation of fruit, and teeming with wildlife. I would need only a mistress and a gourmet chef to make it heaven. Alas, those were not part of the deal, but I could help work on the treehouse and pick as many coffee beans as I wanted while I stayed.
Before descending from Kodaikanal, I decided to send my flying jacket back home. I just couldn’t justify the added weight and space, and did not see myself needing it now that the cooler monsoon months were over, while the rest of this trip foretold travels in the states of Goa, and Rajasthan it seemed redundant to carry it anymore, while I made room for unexpected gifts or food in the saddlebags and this lightened the load.
My navigation took me out of the hill station towards the ghats, and onto what seemed like a horse track aiming steeply into the valley. I carefully let the bike crawl down the hill as the track became tumbled with stones and broken bottles and criss crossed with water piping. There was no way I could bring the bike down any further, and risk damaging the village water supply pipes but I could not stop the bike in a safe place, as even with the brakes on the tired could barely grip the dusty gritty path. I fought with the four hundred pound machine as my nerves were on fire, and my anxiety tensed. A wrought iron gate with a cement slab offered a small ledge to balance the bike on, and I made an impossible three point turn on the badly eroded track, thankfully without tipping the bike, for it would have skid and scratched down hundreds of feet of irretrievable path and might have ended my journey. I vexed how it was even possible to ride it, and why my gps has led me here. Sweating like a savage I turned off the bike, then it wouldn’t start, so I did some deep breathing and studied the wrecked trail I had just come down, wondering if I might even have to carry the bike back up with the help of three men. Eventually someone did arrive, riding a Bajaj 200 cc motorbike with a huge parcel strapped onto it. He measured my predicament with a fair bit of grace and helped me back the bike up to a spot that allowed a few meters of runway, and said to keep it in first. While I fired the ignition it miraculously started again, and I forced my way up over tumbling stones as the bike kicked itself onto a terrace and doubled in speed, as I maneuvered it side to side away from broken glass and piles of trash, then threw it off just before the cement rise while waited for a flock of women wearing saris to pass by, and tried to temper my nerves. One woman stopped and watched my attempt to climb the last four hundred meters and I managed to grate up the hill without stalling, thankful to the Himalayan power and my high chassis for clearing much of the obstacles. Om Ganesha! I cheered as I reached the paved road again, and felt an injection of raw power enter me, though slightly disarrayed that I would need to take the longer route which was over double the travel time. I round my way back downtown for a cold drink and another rest before finally making my way to the Palani Ghat road leading to Elephant valley with a couple hours before dark.
These regions are known for their world class shade grown coffee production, and I started to see the red studded bushes from my saddle. I could detect other crops too as the forest became more dense and small stone cottages hung on as desperately as did their plantations. I had been reading about the famous farms in the Karnataka, Coorg and Tamil Nadu regions, and wanted to visit more of these agriculturally rich zones, which were hidden away in nature. This was the valley of spices; river ginger, turmeric, cardamom, pepper, and nutmeg, some of my favorite imported flavors at home. While other native trees occupied open terraces and plateaus like the amla, tree tomatoes, and jackfruit. A ride in the Indian countryside was as much a journey through a grocery bazaar and wild medicine pharmacy as it was the means to a destination. I left my bike at the base of the spice valley hill and climbed the half kilometer with my food to find the treehouse as promised, then walked back down to retrieve the saddlebags and motorcycle gear, knowing I wouldn’t see the bike again for a couple days and in a way that felt alright with me. A return to a more wild setting and off grid camping life would set this journey back to basic again, besides I had never lived in a treehouse, and if my host was Baloo, then I could be Mowgli in this Jungle book. I would survive off of porridge and red rice for the next few days while exploring this new territory.
The new camp was elemental and exquisite in all the right ways. The tree-house had two levels, with a bonfire ring, and three directions of view to the north, east and west. I could wake in my red and yellow hammock and watch the sunrise from thirty feet up while the pink dyed morning sun enamored my tired eyes. Elephant valley bordered the spice valley, and was known as one of India’s eight hotspots of biodiversity and wildlife. A short trek from the spice valley camp, I reached the Anju Veedu waterfall and the end of the road. It was rare that I actually found myself unable to go further on roadways in India, there was always a maze of traversible ground, streets, byways and alleys to get lost on, always another part of the city or town left unexplored. Here it petered out into trackless mountainside, where even the cattle and the goats did not go, and there was something instrumental in that. I had come as far as possible in this part of India, and nothing could lead me astray, I could not take a diversion if I tried. An iridescent green winged bird caught my attention as I followed the sound of the river to it banks, then following the flow that seemed to move in both directions simultaneously, to its edge where it cascaded down a hundred feet into a pool. I sat on the precipice of the torrenting falls and contemplated life so far, thought about practical things like my budget, and my intentions of the trips. I wondered of my impressions on others while I traveled, if I was really submersed in the culture or just skimming over it. I thought about the female, and my own personal power. These thoughts usually came in tandem, especially while in nature where I felt most alive. Though a gray thread of loneliness usually wove through these experience when I found myself alone. Ironically they were often he most freeing places that inspired the longingness to share some of this wealth with a most beloved, then catching me hot glue back into the limitations of my existence, instead of fully experiencing the awe of the moment in solidarity with nature.
In the am, I met a group of riders from Coimbatore interested to see the treehouse, and the builders themselves, Aum and his girlfriend, a frenchman and a chap from England who had some marveling stories to peddle. They enlisted me in the aesthetic works of the tree building, meanwhile we passed our time fruit gleaning in the surrounding shola and farmstead. It was the first time in my life I foraged fresh passionfruit, and felt like a monkey following their vines up trees to scuffle off with the ripest orange specimens. Parts of the shola forest were blanketed with tree cotton, and we happily lounged in the shade of a mango tree to enjoy our spoils of oranges, and chewed on cinnamon bark for stimulation.
After a gig at the treehouse, I opted to follow Aum and crew back to their slanted farm thriving in a small village in the neighboring valley. The Sri Lakshmi estate homed and fed me for the ensuing week as I picked coffee cherries with the mocha colored Indians in shady elephant forests. At night the dogs defended the realm from marauding bisons and gaur, never ceasing to build up a cacophony of disturbance in the dawn hours. I met folks with stories as rich as my own, and felt the pangs of their struggle, as we related our tender sagas over idlis, curry and porrotas. On a short foray back from Kodai for some drinking vessels, two school children hitched a ride on the back of my bike, and this was the first time I had two pillions. I must admit I was slightly nervous of the transport, and the responsibility I had whimsically taken on. I learned something of the coffee and wild honey culture in the Tamil Nadu hills, the vegetable gardens of Wayanad county in Kerala and the rice paddy plantings of Coorg, through a book I was reading about India’s farms.
In a finale adventure together, we rode the Himalayan and a Bullet out to Elephant valley for a hike down a waterfall river. Permission to hike in these reserves was not easily sought, and as a Canadian I find this rather restrictive on the rights to roam, and tried to remain sensitive to the customs, and regulations, but in the end my wanderlust usually blazed a trail through the bureaucracy and I found myself in more than one occasion on spontaneous routes through no mans zone. It felt grounding and enlivening to tread barefoot the whole trail, this was the least I could do in preserving the relatively untouched shola, as we wended our footsteps down over cascades and rock cap. I took this rare occasion to bathe freely without the burden of clothing, and engage the naturist in me, and I believe this inspired the freedom of another Indian woman hiker with us to partake in the same. The soft animal body should be revealed to the sun frequently. We explored some old dolmens and I felt puzzled why these megalithic structures were stood, so exposed and open to the elements, but perhaps it was abundance of dangerous megafauna of the area, or the practicality of sighting other tribes. These ancient boulders connected me in memorable ways to the barrows and standing stones from Scotland to Ireland, and the Viking horghs of Scandinavia. I could have been standing on a fjord, looking out over the sea.
After a week of several fine meals and unique experiences with my newfound friends from France, I could feel the pull of new mountains and new faces. Aum pulled out several bottles of their homebrew, coffee cherry dukati, and tamarillo wine and home-ferment kombucha, varying in flavor from sweetish meads to tangy shines. This was as good a farewell as I could want, and as I packed the bike a wash of energy pulsed through me. It must have been the drink but the shininess of my spirit felt like more accountable to the new found appreciation for the camaraderie found through a golden thread of casual encounters along the road.
the motorcycle mantras 