Jaisalmer by train

Due to popular demand, or at least a popular demand of Matt's, we found ourselves the lucky recipients of return train tickets to the mystical town of Jaisalmer. The delights of third class travel in a 'sleeper' were heightened when the latrines became a part of our regular nocturnal activities and were suitably sprayed by Marty in an ill fated attempt to blast pure sin in the general toilet area and managed to deposit a load some way above the normal squat position. Routine retching commenced and continued long into the night. Chris tried his charm and lack of Hindi on a self appointed guard trying to secure a passage on the roof - the benefits included ready access to a toilet however warning bells generally begin when an Indian with no teeth, pants and hygiene decides a request from Chris is a bad idea. Arriving in Jaisalmer wiser and a good deal lighter we hitched into town and settled on an old palace of sorts that had the promise of beer and ashtrays in the centre of town for the nights ahead. Dirk and Chris, yet again, shacked up in the royal love nest whilst Matt and Marty could only imagine the Karma Sutra sound effects that would penetrate the walls designed to keep torched Pakistanis quiet. Feeling that the trip needed a little something extra it was decided to blow a considerable amount of cash on three crook camels to see an equally crook sunset. Chris managed to bring up the rest of the food from the train in a few thundering seconds much to the delight of the locals - a ready spectacle for conversation and village food for a month - always the Samaritan. The trip then took a downward turn. The fort was lame as no one with a monthly period was allowed to enter the temples - Dirk and Chris were disappointed and naturally missed out. They did take this time to pray for each other and Matt also said a quick word of thanks managing to prove he only had PMT. Marty had left his tampons at the hotel which was a stroke of genius. Not for the first time this trip had we marvelled at his forethought. To be fair, until this point, we were facing a total of 22 hours on a train for vegemite toast from an aussie cafe. Matt then dug deep. Beers and a swim at a posh hotel. The kids (Chris and Dirk) threw the ball for hours and giggled loudly when a fat German woman with wobbly bits walked past...boys. Matt and Marty discussed poetry and politics, and after a few beers also giggled at the German. We had not seen a European woman in a while and it was obviously time to move on. With towels suitably placed we made our exit. Jaipur beckoned and another train latrine needed to earn its keep.

(Ben Martin)

On yer bike

After a look at the local traffic and with Lou thousands of miles away

Matt had decided to scrap a 4wd and ride pillion with Marty so we found our way to Tony Bullet centre and signed up or three gurgling Enfield Bullet Machismo 350's - ostensibly because of the disk brakes and familiar left side gear shift but really due to the chrome and tough name.

The over bureaucratic nature of India (damn Brits) makes

renting a bike not quite as simple as in other countries - in this case we were to "buy" the bikes and had the requisite paperwork to save us from the authorities (another company had suggested we would be "borrowing" them from friends) ... more concerning was the list of suggested compensations we should dole out in case of an accident: $500-$800 for a broken bone - apparently best to avoid the lynch mob (a threat in India) and not involve the police!

Improbably "Tony" had a helmet to fit Matt

 - I think it had been prefabricated to be shipped to Aus as another tacky tourist attraction, however, the rest of us had to buy ours and as such put a price on our own heads. Figuring $3 was a bit low we opted for the $10 "imports" - lighter, and probably less safe, than styrofoam 6 pack eskies.

We headed at 6am the next day to avoid the Delhi traffic. The simple plan was to tail Matt's tuk-tuk until we were out of Delhi ... a simple plan slightly beyond Ben. Following an empty tuk-tuk that was not sporting the big purple poster on the back of the original, and, perhaps more critically, was not being followed by either of the other bikes - Ben found himself lost in Delhi.

An hour later with the use of mobiles, locals, and low res maps on hands,

Ben came into sight.  Eager to re-establish contact he turned square across a following bus ... the bus locked up and Ben found himself face to face with a grill exchanging pleasantries in languages not known but understood. I'm not sure if it was the one god Matt prayed to, the 1000 Tony Bullett did when he met us or a damn good Delhi brake technician but somehow Marty was alive. After breakfast and a change of pants we hit the road again through the surging, squeezing, organic traffic and Rajasthan heat to Mandawa for the night.

I'm not sure when exactly, however, it was

somewhere between Mandawa and Jaipur that passing a bus that's overtaking a camel with an oncoming tractor on a 2 lane road became reasonable - perhaps dangerously, riding in India started to feel like a computer game ... albeit one of those annoying ones where, no matter how many tokens you collect, you only have predetermined number of lives and the game always starts on the first level. Cars, beggars (asleep and in action), pigs, dogs (dead and alive), potholes, tuk-tuks, wheelbarrows, overloaded converging trucks (ask Dirk), kids (both kinds), unmarked speedhumps (sponsered by chiropractors), cows, sidesaddled 'gals in beautiful sari's, elephants, Bricks, camels, bikes, buses .... I kind of expected charmers to pop up from trucks throwing cobras but it never eventuated.

We had seen and experienced a fair bit, however, riding dominated the psyche for the

first couple of days. Dropping the bikes of at a Jaipur (if it doesn't break down its not a bullet"), we hoped to engage with India in a different way in the following days. Don't expect to read about it though as Ben is writing the net post - gifted with the cultural sensitivity of a swastika at a bat mitzvah, expect the literary equivalent of his bowel afflictions.

Manali

"Semi-luxury sleeper" was a slight misnomer - the "semi-luxury" might have referred to the fact that the seats tilted 30deg (if you had one) ... however, i am not sure where sleeper came from - the legroom fit for Nepalese dwarfs, constant stopping, liberal horn usage and the drivers decision to keep his window open despite single digit ambient temperature ensured we arrived in the Manali morning looking for a place to sleep.

Thinking the quiet hillside town to be the perfect place for Dirk to learn to ride a before hitting the streets of Delhi we grabbed a 150c and headed to Naggar (a town of people who annoy me). Some would call it foolhardy to learn to ride a poorly tuned bike with a backpacked pillion through the Himalayan valleys and towns at night - and I would tend to agree, had we not invested in woolen helmets ingeniously doubling as beanies. Dirk rode well, showing particular adaptation to the horn - he would have passed had he not failed to bribe the guard to the private mountain road.

The following day we jumped in the "jeep" (a 2wd Suzuki shoebox) for a day of trekking and skiing in the mountains. Too far below the snowline for our liking our "guide" pointed vaguely in the direction of the fog covered mountain and retired to the comfort of a coffee tent. We hiked to about 3500m and despite the abysmally low ski/hike ratio finished the day tired and content in temple spring baths.

The overnight bus back to Delhi was probably just a standard trip but shouldn't be: a bunch of guys trying to push start the bogged bus, ornamental fans and lights, constant throwback onto Dirk from the intoxicated passenger in front, and , being singled out as the only tourists on board, an en route drug search (I felt like telling the sleazy officer that racism does not exist in Australia) ... we subsequently shat ourselves when we read that under a tough new stance even a personal amount of charas can result in a 10 year prison term. I threw my only Manali souvenir out the window.

Finally arriving at our hotel we were greeted by an ever subtle Ben - an AC/DC bandana, cigarette and grin pushing through a tangled mass of hair and beard, all improbably mounted on top of a bright red kylie t-shirt (Perhaps better than the "cant you see I'm on a spiritual journey" tourists that abound in India) - Matt was wisely sidling a disassociative distance behind, it was great to see them both.

Intro to India

Ok, I'm back on the road after spending a couple of years in sunny Perth - hopefully the only place in Aus where stretch hummers are allowed on the road. It was a great opportunity to live in and enjoy the vast state and meet some great people and some South Africans. I joined the rat race, turned 30 and then 31 always feeling like it was a bit of a placeholder while deciding when and where to move on. Well that's 1.5 years ridiculously distilled into a paragraph ... the last few days may take a bit longer:

Heading from Tas to join Dirk in Sydney I shared my seat

with the left side of my large neighbour confident in the knowledge (screw probability theory) that we would therefore get great seats for the 12.5hr flight to Mumbai - (which, of course, we did - landing well rested early in the Mumbai evening).

With one day in which to explore Mumbai we crossed the road from out Hovel to check out the now infamous Taj Hotel and then on to the Dhobi Ghats - a stark juxtaposition! The Dhobi Ghats

are essentially human powered washing machines complete with extremely rudimentary housing. The workers 14 hr shifts and $10/month pay packets confirming my long held suspicion that mum has had it to easy for to long! We would not forget how fortunate we are for at least 10 minutes.

After the ghats we found our way to Gandhi's house, some dodgy gardens, a waterfront mosque lined with beggars, and the famous Chowpatty beach (slightly less appealing than cott). In between we manged to get in on a game of street cricket- knowing we could take on the

Indian kids or bribe the umpire. However, when the youngest player, calling himself Brett Lee and sporting Murali's bowling action, started beating us for pace we did what any self respecting Aussie would do - called him a chucker. We left with pride in tact, confident in the knowledge that he wont be seen in international cricket!

We caught early flights above the dense Indian smog through Delhi north to Shimla - an old colonial town of ~100,000 people 2000m in the steep Himalayan foothills.  Not distracted by the rich history , culture and natural beauty we headed straight for the Monkey Temple at the top of the hill. On reaching the peak we were bitterly disappointed by the temples distinct lack of primate action. It seemed our childhood fantasies of a world ruled by monkeys would remain unfulfilled ... that was until Dirk was jumped by monkey cleanly deposessing him of the sunglasses on his face! Oh the shame, a defense force lieutenant ambushed by an untrained monkey - I suddenly understood how Vietnam was lost and we headed back to town feeling more mice than men.

To reinstate our manlyhood we stopped in for a cut throat shave and a whiskey before jumping on the semi- sleeper for the trip up the valley to Manali. It felt like we had been in India for weeks, though stool samples would attest to it being a mere 48hrs.