DO |
rickshaw run blogs jan 2014 North to south pan-india on a glorified lawnmower
for our second run April 2015 (west - east across the top 3000+ Km @ 40km/hr) go to DO blogspot
Caress the detail, the divine detail - Vladimir Nabokov Elaboration when you are into the journey is as inevitable as it is incredible. How we can recall every small detail of our experiences yet not how many times we have told the same person, listening patiently to our travel sagas, bored with image after image of holiday photos. It's the detail that makes a journey life changing, makes the learning permanent and that carries the most impact. The smallest of things or the synchronicity of flow, where events group and cluster themselves to have pattern or meaning to the learner, the observer, yourself. Sometimes it's even when you are doing nothing at all that the elaboration takes hold and you find yourself swallowed in the wonder of sights and smells. Or when the once surreal becomes so common cameras are away because we have enough camel shots. Day 9 on a road side shot I spot graffiti on the DO logo - who dares to suggest option A... Do nothing? A quick camera roll audit shows the molestation was pre race start. It's right in front of me yet I've failed to see it and Edward is quick to pick up on the point that without any driving hours under my belt and his commandeering control of the music it would appear to describe my role well. Maharashtra was our fourth state in India. Where routines were established and the patterns emerged. We were living on tenterhooks waiting for breakdowns that for World's fastest kiwi never came. Expecting the roads and challenges to become insurmountable. Plans for what we would do should a team fail to run a police check point. A forward route and time to head back North to see something spectacular are all the cul-de-sacs that elaboration take you on. By the finish line Curry pie had been to the shop four times. Nowhere near the mechanical darma we had pre planned for. We quickly learnt if it ain't broke don't fix it. And the engineers became so adept with #sugru, number 8 wire and gaffer tape that evenings in the hotel room were rarely workshops. Our chassis snapped at the roof line, a weld broken, realising that even with a broken frame an auto offers no protection against any impact so we chose to gaffer it, bind the gaffer in #8 and tuk on. It didn't even register as a breakdown when the other side snapped as well. Our day 2 spark plug ejection had held up well to early repairs, the day in Sai town had fixed the clutch though we were not 100% convinced that had even been a problem. In Maharashtra some crap in the fuel line was sorted and that was it breakdown tally 4 at a push and I only had to DO that once. Some teams had more than 50 breakdowns and spent a lot of time in the shop. When you stop you just sit, until the person seemingly wearing the best clothes in the village we called the Mayor, would arrive and direct proceedings, enquiring why we were loitering in their town and arranging to accompany us to the rescue. If you were limping along you target an auto taxi queue. And if it's sunset - you find a hotel with a bar and hope that when she has cooled her lid sweetie will perform in the morning. The advice from pre run to never push your tuk more than 100 kms without a chai stop and an hour long cool down were our rituals to avoid more drama. We'd picnic on road sides, brave man towns for water bottles and loo stops and take dal with truckies and pilgrims. Our data would amuse and confuse with devices random as to where they would work. But most days by 2pm we had decided how far we thought we could push on and started to find a bed for the night. We'd battle data outages to try and book on line, this is still the holiday season and the best places are busy with travellers and we know Goa is going to be packed.Our strategy for accommodation had become based on comfort, food and laundry. Many runners will scoff, once we realised we were all about enjoying this journey we were seeking the boutique Indian experience. A chateau, the Ivy restaurant, a trip advisor listing - booked on line so they could not refuse us at the door. Nothing of course was as expected. The chateau had gone broke in the GFC when they started importing wine to meet demand and hit market evaporation and a currency crisis. The Ivy was great at keeping the Chateau Indiage wine cellared or was it just no one had been there post GFC to drink it? That's not to say we ditched local lodgings closer to 2 star all together the Sitara near Indiage provided us there most delux of rooms - though no power to that floor for a while and going up class mean going upstairs, many flights with much luggage and no porters here. We did find their linen cupboard so helped us selves to more sheets. While no cleaner they were folded giving the illusion of freshness and motivation to rise in the dark and depart before the light would prove how wrong that assumption had been. Pune and the golden arches. Touches of western comfort for breakfast a bacon and egg mc muffin a vege birger or chicken - way to a mans heart. We were becoming accustomed to the segregation of women or so we thought until Man Town Kolhipur where Heather and I were evicted from the hotel bar for being unaccompanied. And the feeling on road side stops in parts was that our comfort zone really was eating in the autos as inside a permit room went just too quiet with so many stares that our nerves were exposed. We had rituals of worship for our autos, fresh flowers in the morning and fuel stop functionality with storage of funnels and hoses to keep dust out of their carbs elaborate. When you finish the run people always ask how often you see other teams - not often. Well behind the main pack rumours tell of 32 teams in one bar going in Goa but they will be long gone by the time we hit there. We see a few of the girl teams with four in a tuk on route, enough for a drive by wave and toot session. Perhaps 5 mins on the side of the road to check in and see if everyone is doing ok. But apart from our two tuk twosome we are alone on the roads of India with her people not ours. We pass the Irish team member who is alone as his team mates have had to return home for a funeral and another tuk keeping him company. We hear the Koreans withdrew on Day 1 and that 3 tuks have rolled and more have flipped. We meet the team from Barbados a couple of times, they are ducking off roads to find temples in search of a new experience. The most common request when you meet another team is for Rizzlas which goes to show what many may be up to on the road. Excitement watching the donations to our charities growing we are blown away with how friends and family are contributing to these causes and excited to know that this epic journey for Live More Awesome is raising real cash to fight depression back at home in NZ. The charities of other teams are inspiring - The Italians have gone to visit their charity and cooked pasta for them. The Cool Earth guys are chatting to us on social media encouraging the journey and thanking us for the money we are raising. The tracking map haunts us the main pack are way ahead, though only 20 odd teams of the 78 seem to be posting. You text your position each night so mums and dads at home can tell the kids the days installment. We have no idea where we sit except towards the back but we are comfortable there in our elaboration of the journey, this long middle piece, early starts in the dark of morning, late finishes as night falls, eating up miles and pushing for Goa our rest stop , our party place, the next state - Incubation.
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A good traveller is one who knows how to travel with the mind - Michael Bassey Johnson Day 6 dawned, the beach in Daman deceptive in her glory - Baldy discovered the sunset sand was sewage, ankle deep, and any thought of a swim evaporated into the mould of our hotel rooms. Well rested from their true boys- night clubbing, all women everywhere were safely at home. The engineers had chanted and swayed with Daman property barons to the call of Sai Baba with no big picture that our initiation - stage three of all natural learning was about to occur in the Land of Sai. Mahararashta before us we picked a short cut through the mountains to Nasik and the wine country, of course. Sula is India's Montana wines, we'd consumed enough of it already to think we certainly needed to see where it was made and a short jaunt over the hills seemed entirely luxurious as we envisaged lunch or an afternoon in the vines. A short stop in a village to tinkier in our tuks rear ; Heather and I admire local metalware thinking what great salad bowls they'd make back home. A man with shelves of "Clit" car wash almost throws me a small figurine to add to our auto altar - Sai baba, retrospectively he was probably offended that I had offered to pay or that I swopped him a kiwi key ring. Still no idea that this was just a taste of the wonder of my initiation to all that Nasik and Maharashtra had up her sleeve. We set off feeling chuffed, organised, globalised and relaxed, this was day 6 after all, surely we all knew where s&*t was at. The roads were as promised in all the Rickshaw run promotional blurbs, GHASTLY! Pot holes bigger than an auto rickshaw no road let alone surface on the unsurfaced roads, trucks, trucks and buses and unrelenting dust, dust and dust. This is rural India, vast, empty and organised in it's own way. Dead dogs on the road lie bloated and fly feasted, a man sleeping with his head down a bank maybe dead? Each building a work of road side advertising, modern wells, collective living. Peasant dress splashes of colour, our modesty not an issue as we were covered mouth to eye, head to toe just to breathe and have a barrier between ourselves and all of India's dust. It took us 10 hours to cover 186 kms. Infrastructure study tour professionals we were excited to see road gangs preparing to fix the roads then we realised what we had been on they had fixed. The preferred methodology is the slightest smallest women bearing largest heaviest aluminium salad bowls full of rubble on heads. Hand filling pot holes, while just out of stagger range drums of tar were cauldron boiling modern witchcraft to tie it together, tipped like chocolate ice cream shells over the top. The red dirt base just ejected the offering making hokey pokey lumps to navigate around and threaten tyres, tail bones and time. Deceptive curb and channel with no road in between. Great wide expanse or a smooth surface invites a frenzy of manic overtaking until 50 m around a corner it all vanishes again into a mars scape and we were no rovers. NO military here then, not much of anything really, pristine in white; Muslim overseers direct the gangs who have no smile or wave for runners just a days hard labour to complete. A chai stop at the top of a hill met with Edwards "are you pharking serious" it was the cage of small unidentified birds for lunch at the door that we could not get him beyond so a road side picnic with a few wild dogs was preferred. The last 5 kms to Sula seemed to mock us with the blue dot taking us through places Google maps throws in just for laughs. Kids chased us back up alleys knowing we were doomed by dead ends and fords and that our Aotea Souvenir pen collection was deep enough and rich enough for every child in the village to score. Sunset was again upon us. Everyday racing the light, we headed for Beyond Resort, not surprisingly way way beyond Sula and screamed up to the door, security puzzled, abandoned ship for the first world and ran in to skull a bottle each as we laughed hysterical at how short our day had been. The only westerners with a bar tab big enough to cover every other guest in the place. We know we stand out like dog gonads as quiet voices, decorum and tasting are not the order of our day. We awoke on day 7 checking everyone for injuries, one of our party who shall remain nameless had fallen into bed with a full glass of shiraz courtesy of Sula the Sungod and the 400 thread count linen had taken the full brunt of it. Relieved that none of us have bled to death we haemorrhage money at check out, nothing like having to purchase your duvet to send the 5 star accommodation budget screaming past 6 stars. Keen to hop along to another vineyard, we felt in complete control of this run, so far behind the main pack who were already partying in Goa our strategy became milking every last moment of experience on the premis that in life no one gets out alive so we may as well be here for a good time if not a long time. Initation into India seemed complete, we were ready for a "repeat day" surely we must be out of new experiences sights and smells by now. We'd had the highways, the crap roads. The local dogy lodgings with sheets more stained than the luxury duvet we had just bought. We'd eaten roadside, street side and fireside. Our set up routine at the start of each day now a ritual. We had a gloat of a trouble shooting aura about us. The Bose had lost a three pin in the power board and #sugru had come to the rescue. The engineer had hard wired the plug straight into our power board and remounted the Bose on the front dash of the tuk so sounds were pumping. The air cooling system of engine door removal is working well and top speed down hill had been clocked at 60kms. We picked our morning bougainvillea offering to sweetie pie and the pinky bar and set off with bravado to tackle a teenie 135kms to Chateau Indage, cause that's how we roll. 5 km's in we realise the sweetie is in need of serious help, all along the road hordes of people wearing orange or carrying orange flower bedecked vessels with boom boxes blasting all are walking faster than our tuk will travel. We are limping along and pull up to the local auto taxi cab rank to ask help from the experts. After much frantic head wobbling and cries of mechanical! mechanical! from them not us we are escorted a few kms to more head wobbles and mechanical questions. Same guy, same one word answer I think he was so excited yet terrified that he had no idea if we really wanted and he didn't want to lead us a stray . His head was wobbling so fast it was adrenalin paced and we were all matching it and pushing our hindi translate app for all it was worth on words such as oil, and clutch and bearings as oblivious as he was as to what we really should do next. The orange wearers were growing, what I had thought was a funeral procession was changing surely into an industrial dispute - so many with banners and chanting and marching it had to be a call to action of sorts. This led us to the village of Shirdi, the place of pilgrimage for Sai Baba, he who taught no discrimination of any religion a path for darsharn for many if not all in India for us it was a mechanic that was to be our guru. We hit pay dirt but the man with the key was not there. 30 mins we were assured he would appear and fix our troubles. People were crowding, mobbing and more were arriving. We were given free water, chocolate, men were swooning , holding our hands, shaking our hands. babies were crying at our strange white faces . Out of the mass a beautiful princess appeared in a aquamarine sari, her English plum perfect she interprets and explains to the crowd what planet we have come from. She shares with us that some have never seen a European before, let alone touched one. And they all want to know how we got hold of our autos and why we have driven them on our pilgrimage to see Sai Baba. The penny drops, these have not been industrial hikois we have driven a chosen path. Half a million pilgrims on a holi day 25,000 when it's quiet. She is a teacher of English, though without the rupees required for her practising certificate she teaches in her home and in true British fashion she invites Heather and I to her house to take tea. We cross the street, the feminine crowd with us. Like a parting of the red sea the men stay with the autos but the female numbers swell to tidal. Every woman and her child in the village join us outside of her home. We are offered cups of water, as we deliberate whether to drink them a toddler at my knee sneezes full green directly into my face and cup taking away any doubt. Chai is served in the best china and question and answer time begins. We show I phone images of our children, while they ask us to take images of each of theirs. Fringes are brushed with fingers, mouths and noses are wiped on saris as each baby is presented for their image. We tell our ages, exchange our secrets, how long we have been married, how our child birth was and how homes in New Zealand are run. It is precious, each moment a jewel. The sisterhood and sharing the children and the caring. Heather and I are trying to inhale it as we did the dust yesterday. Aware of how very special this bridge across worlds is and how without initiation into the feminine of India you have not been welcomed at all. Our English teacher hostess asks if we would like to step inside and see photos of her brothers. We cross the threshold and slip into her cool parlour where she lives with two sisters and her mother. The proud glossy images of her brother in the police force, he's climbing ropes, holding big guns, buff, handsome, rose tinted cheeks in hand touched images. A portrait of her father hangs on the wall, her mother welcomes us to their spotless living room. This is a two room dwelling; one for living one for cooking. Her mother is my age her husband has been dead more than 10 years, she looks 70, we realise the burden she has carried for her 4 children is India's largest salad bowl. The other women cluster at the windows, staring in, the brave asking questions which are translated and answers hurled impatiently back by our host. The excitement of the family is palateable. A sister who is at work is rung to talk to us. Paper and pens are produced for addresses and future contacts. When our princess hostess feels enough is enough she abruptly pulls the curtains shutting out the other women and giggles and claims us for her self. After a while I return to the children, their faces and smiles making me miss mine I want to be with them and play. I head back to sweetie and a horde come with me. We put on music and have an auto rave. I have children beside me in front of me on top of me and next to me. Holding my hand, stroking my clothes or babies frowning and crying when I look their way. We are laughing together as only children can laugh. A little one Phoebes age and size with a pixie crop cut makes me homesick, I want to scoop her up and tickle her to hear her giggle again and again it is the same at age 6 in any language. A girl my Sophie's age dibs me Auntie, she is on the verge of puberty, about to loose the innocence of childhood. Already a baby on her hip and the voice of command with those younger, she senses freedom and asks if she can come with us, to help, to guide us South, to stay for ever in New Zealand. Older women offer me food, they chase away teen boys and tell the men who have gathered again on the fringe in no uncertain terms to move away and stay away. Heather has remained in the house they are applying henna to her hand, the marriage markings to stop all harm. They instruct us not to shake hands. the men they say have no good intention, they will not wash that hand and will put it to no good use! Every male I have held out my hand too flashes before me, I shudder. Heathers henna is glorious and once she wears this badge of honour stretching up the inside of her palm and inner arm, traditional and calming the men show us both more respect, and we keep our hands by our sides. If the third stage of learning is initiation, the introduction to the true content, where you get to know what it is that you are to learn then the land of Sai has been our initiation. We have begun our haji at last , the mechanical has been completed, the men have shown the guys their marriage hall as a badge of honour. We drive off with them certain we are off to see their Sai Baba, instead for us we are headed South still 100 or more kms to go until we find our Chateau. This day has touched our hearts, no repeat, just pure magic. We drive out of Shirdi knowing we have now found India. I cry more than once, the beauty swelling my heart. Thinking of the child who wanted to come South with me refusing to let go of my hand, the grandmother who had rushed across town as word spread of our presence bringing her boy to be photographed just before we left, and the drunken man who cried at our beauty and strangeness. Sai baba town - thank you... guru not required your people are the key to your eternal city. Generations to come will scarcely believe that such a one as this ever walked upon this earth in flesh and blood. ~~~ Einstein (about Gandhi) Delhi, India www.pratheep.com #Sugru is #fixing the future. In the natural learning framework there are seven stages of exposure. Globalization the second state it's where your brain comprehends the big picture, the context, it forms the nest for learning. The petri dish in which all experiences to follow will be mixed and held together. Our second state in India was Gujarat. Birthplace of Gandhi, location of the three "must not go under any circumstance" locations on the Southern Rickshaw Run. Big hills that require sophisticated air cooling systems rural life basics are punctuated with great infrastructure. Our preparation felt complete, we had #sugru on the butt plug of our inflatable kiwi to hold his air in. #Sugru held the new battery to the floor and our protector Ganesh to our tuk alter - we now had a place for everything and everything in it's place. We had this! We had everything except for the slip of paper with the no go places in Gujarat and the back up picture of the briefing power point slide that WFK took as we thought we had the slip of paper. We headed in to the big picture blind. Day three dawned dark, after two nights in cloud-nine-marshmallow beds, glamping at Manvar desert camp and as valued guest of Ajit Bhawan, Lorde royal. Well feasted with fine friends in Oms family environment emersion dinner. If any of the others had suggested we just put the tuk on a truck and linger in Jodphur I might have... Instead they were waving the tracking map of the brave bold who were already through Gujarat. We were lolling in the first state, waking up to the fact that the hardy who hit Barmer, Day 1 - may not have been that barmy. We had used all our excuses, sweeties spark sorted, shopping in the custody of India Post, we could now easily spot a maharajah in a crowd. There were no more five stars on the map. Getting the big picture in Gujarat is a staff Induction process. You can try and skirt around it, miss it out altogether, try going - the long way to learning. Maybe you decide you'll race through it, holding your breath. Or immerse yourself in it and wallow in the lesson. What ever path you choose - you can not not participate, defined as much by inactions as actions - Gujarat was the state that tested our preparation. Time to go to work. Rajasthan sensing we were slipping through her grip got real and delivered head on truck smashes a double fatality, bull rush with pink buses of death, 12 lane highways the width of 4, both sides moving 2-way through extreme road works and no road marking. We were reassured Gujarat roads would be amazing. Where there is military in India there is infrastructure. Huge wind turbine blades were on the road with us.We were masters of surfing; drafting trucks, running toll gates waving and smiling at police pull overs; we kept on tukking. We stood toes on the edge of the high diving board of crossing our first border. A wake up call at a local lodging house where our market mattresses are on top of stained beds and showers may or may not be heated by wood burners our accommodation budget smiled and got itchy. We were given a private room for dinner - to hide us as much as treat us. We carried the honour of runners, free use of a motorbike to go in search of fruit. Stepping over the bodies of truckies sleeping on the floor to leave early, the lodging service was faultless, but we stood out like beef burgers. Drinkers of alcohol, white, loud voices and free with our affection between men and women. It was the point when we could have turned around and climbed back down the ladder - but we jumped in over the border to our second state. Our unlimited data immediately stopped functioning. As did any presence of facilities on the road side. "Just label madam not real" blue dot blinking ceased to beat on a live map and if you needed to go you did. Gujarat is a dry state - Gandhi taught the lessons well. The sins of the western world are not visable. Previous runners may have created some bad rep, teams found no room at the inn to fit the rows of keys hanging behind reception. An advantage to unlimited data is booking on line we had Vadodara already locked in; Ahmedabad looked huge and too close we had pushed out the frame a bit far. Our longest day of endless monotony, chewing up the kms, scared we were travelling places we should not be, the police checks and toll stops more numerous we still ran them. A crew we were leap frogging had their auto commandeered by the officer they tried to ignore at a check point and were driven by him to the station to explain why four women would dare to be out alone, in a rickshaw ignoring a cordon. Adventurist job skill training stage 1 success when they giggled like little girls as instructed, gave photo opportunities and had chai masala to escape. Monkeys were sped past before we could see what they did with that. Knowing they could shred an auto of it's wiring faster than transmit a virus. Participants in another run more great race in format than our unsupported junket filled us in several states south that the monkeys were indeed the true bandits of India's roads, they trashed four of their tuks in seconds. With no data, and no clues, arriving at night into a modern Indian metropolis in rush hour there is only one outcome - find an tuk expert quickly and follow him through the mess. Keep an eye on his licence plate and ignore the bikes you hit or cars you sideswipe while keeping your eye on the prize. Our adrenalin rolled up to the Welcom Hotel filthy, thirsty and perhaps not that Welcom. Once we had showered and put on our posh clothes we were armed with a coveted licence to drink. In our rooms with wine bought from one of only 5 outlets in Vadodara handily in our hotel. Feeling more than a little disrespectful to Gandhi we toasted his peaceful endeavours. The door opened frequently to a person at the key hole, excellent proactive service or the secret service listening, wondering what we were getting up to. They rang us randomly with lost in translation assistance. Offering wireless codes at midnight, ironing boards to the wrong room but managing laundry at a speed that suggested the system was again working and that copies of our visas and documentation really had been taken for registration with the local police station. Islam swallowed me. At 176 million Muslims the Indian first were traders in Kerala and Gujarat is further up India's western coast. There has been tension in Gujarat and many have died for their cause. Birth rates of Muslim to Hindu are changing the face of India. Now 10 percent or so of India's population it seemed to us we had landed in the middle of the home state. Islam is audible, the call to prayer more than mantra. There is a silence too, people will not talk about the size or impact of elephant in the room, they won't tell you what you are doing to offend yet the lack of engagement is as palatable as a non veg kitchen. It's tangible in it's not touching of men in immaculate white dress. Visable as they oversee Hindu road gangs, are the merchants, the educators, politicians and property developers. Women in full cover - segregated, chaperoned and exotic. Advantages of being a runner and female are that the dirt and grime of the road and high malaria risk in Gujarat has us well covered. We have scarfs to keep warm against the morning and evening chill, #buff bandanas to cover hair or breathe through, clothed and not out after dark as none of us have cracked the seal on our anti malarials. Our state has changed. We don't feel as welcome here, people are as likely to look away or past you as look at you and children are cautioned not to approach for our give aways. Instead of WOW .. you are doing that faces we face WHY are you doing that? We've got the big picture and we are really out of context. We are the infidels and all our flaws are on display. Is it that we want out of Gujarat or that they really want us out? The big picture is like a trailer, the film where nothing bad has happened yet but the lighting and music put you in suspense. We pushed through it, covering as many kms with as few stops as possible. "Are you f'n serious?? As chai stops became why stop? The coast calling, rumours of a small haven, an independent state existing on the edge of it. Within striking distance the folk from Mumbai head to the sea and party. Gathering in groups in night clubs is a threat to bombing in Bombay so oasis like the bay of Daman has taken that place. Certain that Daman is the answer to ease our nerves we choose it as the third state of learning. Initiation. We vote that Gujarat become our fastest transit. We leave the state to those who love it and I think they are quite glad to see us go. |
Team: Goodbye Curry Pie
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