You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir! Read online

  I arrived in Mysore, my penultimate destination. I thought I’d go and enjoy the sights and sounds of India there. Outside my hotel I met Darpan, a motorised rickshaw driver. He couldn’t believe I’d never seen a beedi (Indian cigarette) rolled, or an incense stick made, nor smelt the oils Mysore is famed for. He said it was as though God had put us together. He was a man who knew his way around town, I was lucky. He knew where beedies were made, where the incense could be tested and the most legitimate oil presser in town. He would also take a big cut of anything I spent.

  On the rickshaw we laughed about his being a business man. We saw the beedi factory, a small room in a flat where twenty people squatted making a pile of beedies two metres in circumference and one metre high -cigarettes made from one leaf of tobacco rolled then tied with a red thread. We went to the oil press where I tested every oil until I smelt like a flower shop and I was forced to buy one that supposedly increased my male virility by a factor of five. I told him to ask my wife Shirley if I needed it. Back at the market, I was taken inside a store and shown how to make my own incense stick which I was allowed to keep, and still display alongside the menthol black sandalwood oil. As we left the market, he asked if I’d ever driven a rickshaw.

  “Of course not. We don’t have them in England.”

  “Would you like to try now?”

  Within minutes I was whizzing past all the places we’d been to, leading a particularly vocal passenger, Darpan, who was shouting to his friends as we cruised past like rude boys on Southend's sea front.

  As I got bored of driving the rickshaw and switched places with Darpan, my mind turned to my future. It was so up in the air and I had no idea how it was going to come to land. I caught sight of an older Western lady crossing the road, so I jumped out of the cab, paid my bill and caught up with her. After a few seconds of small talk, there was a connection and I felt we just had to have a hug.

  Embarrassed about our embrace after so few words spoken, we went our separate ways only to bump into each other later and to start on a profound conversation. She was another spiritual lady. Where do they all come from? She reassured me that I was on the right path and, without knowing my issues at all, said she felt clarity was coming my way over the next week. As for love, for that I had to be patient, as ever!

  A few hours before I was due to leave on the last leg of my journey, I was lying listening to music and we were still chatting. Each word connected with my every thought. She asked me if I was spiritual. It was one of those questions she already knew the answer to.

  “Nah,” I replied, “I’m not into that kind of stuff.”

  “The kind of stuff we’ve been talking about passionately for the past eight hours?” she replied smiling.

  “Oh?”

  I’m Danger Dan – nerdy, clumsy, loud, ungraceful, stupid. My farts stink. Spiritual? Come on, get real – I like bikes. No?

  Chapter 43

  I switched on the video camera with bleary eyes for my last video diary. The usual red light flashed to let me know it was recording. I was sitting on the edge of a checked mattress with the usual stains I’d come to expect engrained within the fibres. A couple of mosquitoes were circling me with intent. There was a commotion outside as a man selling pots and pans was escorted away by the police. I looked back at my camera and still the light was flashing. I got as far as “This is my last…” before emotion dried me up. I couldn’t speak. Choking down a sob, I grabbed the camera and swept the room with it, recognising that I was starting the last day in the same manner I had the first - surrounded by kit. Just like me, it looked a little older, sun blemished and in need of a deep soak, but it had made it over fourteen thousand nine hundred kilometres, halfway across the world, crossing fourteen countries in six months and two days.

  There were only one hundred kilometres to go, meaning I’d be in Vidyadaya School in Gudalur today. I should be celebrating tonight. I wondered whether I would be able to in the heart of the jungle. Who would I celebrate with? I didn’t know anyone, and who would be interested anyway? I had been passing through the jungle for over a week and hadn't been able to contact anyone. I worried about interrupting the school's education programme and about how I would introduce myself if I were to visit the classrooms. What would I say? I couldn’t speak one word of the tribal language used in the area. I began to question my motives for doing the ride and what it had achieved. Did anyone care?

  For the 188th time I rammed the kit into my panniers and dragged my bike down the stairs.

  Sitting outside the hostel, with Shirley by my side, I felt I needed to talk to her; to let her know how I was feeling. Would she and I find ourselves in this position again? Would she forget me now the adventure was coming to an end? I casually flicked a bit of dirt off her handle bars. She looked so pretty cloaked in flowers.

  “This is our last day together. Our last adventure.”

  I ran a finger along her top tube. I knew every dent, every scratch, every curve. We had been through so much together, Shirley and I.

  She said nothing, but I knew she was listening. Her lack of outward emotion did nothing to deaden my own as I swung my leg over her for our last assault; the final leg of our journey.

  The air in Mysore was rich with the smell of spices and herbs of the street vendors setting up shop. All creatures great and small came out to see us on our way. Workers knee deep in road waved and cheered as we cycled by. A gaggle of monks cheered and bowed as the breeze from Shirley made ripples in their robes. Boys, on their way to school on single speed bikes that were far too big for them, raced alongside calling “Mr, Mr,” before dropping back. My constant companion, the swift, returned to surf my slipstream for a few hundred yards before flying off into the Maharaja’s Palace under the radiant blue sky.

  After thirty kilometres, a car stopped and, in faltering English, a lady with a pea green and luminous pink sari said “From Chembakolli” before draping a flower reef made of yellow marigolds around my neck. For the second time today I was struck dumb and couldn’t say a word. I fumbled to push emotion aside to allow the words out and eventually managed a pathetic “Thank you”, but she had already jumped back in her car and was driving off in the direction I’d come, hooting her horn and waving in the rear view mirror.

  A few hundred metres further on a group of monkeys sitting in the road showed their teeth and hissed as I came closer but, as I drove by, they broke out into a playful game of chase through the trees above my head. A large male sat with his knuckles on the floor, shaking his head and watching the white man cycling a bike looking like a horticultural show on acid through the open jungle.

  “Is this how people behave in Europe? How very uncouth.”

  I was beckoned over for tea by a group of men who took the opportunity to down tools and get some much-needed rest and entertainment. As we sat on handmade stools around a table with each leg different lengths, causing our tea to slosh from cup to saucer, I imagined I was Alice in Wonderland, or was I the Mad Hatter? And who was the March Hare? I saw no Dormouse; only a rat the size of a small dog. The men didn’t speak English but this didn’t stop them telling me their life stories in Kannada, and me thoroughly enjoying their accounts.

  I finished off my cup and supped what remained in the saucer. I was torn; I wanted to stay and chat, and savour the taste of tea on the road because I didn’t want my journey to end but, at the same time, I had the utmost desire to complete my task, to get off my bike, and never to cycle again.

  I was also worried about the next leg of my journey through the Kalakad Mundanthurai tiger reserve. Did I want to see a tiger or not? Of course I’d love to see the fiercest animal of them all, the most intricately beautiful, my favourite creature. All those people who had rubbed my nose in it for not having seen one yet, when they had come across two or three, still bugged me. I’d have loved to post a picture home of a real one after dressing up as a tiger at the party in Goa. But now was not the time. Probably best to see them through a Jeep
window rather than up close and personal.

  I began to see signs advertising the reserve. I’d read that it had the highest concentration of tigers in any part of India, and that it was common to see them prowling by the sides of the road that passed through the park. I started imagining what I would do if confronted by the two ton beast. What if it had cubs that were hungry? Shirley shuddered beneath me – I knew she could feel it too.

  With my heart beating hard and mouth dry, I made my way up to the park entrance. A very kindly-spoken man, with a well groomed white beard and khaki uniform, instructed me that it was too dangerous. I said I didn’t mind and that I had to go through. A shake of the head and deeply sorrowful eyes said “No way”. He followed this up with “Tigers, elephants. Too slow,” pointing at Shirley.

  I looked at my map and there was an alternative route. It was a diversion of about a hundred and sixty kilometres. I’d never make it to the school today. I hung my head and let the exhaustion flow through my body. My hopes of arriving today had grown wings and disappeared off with the parakeets, disturbed by the motorbikes revving their engines in the distance.

  The motorbikes were driving through the park at a tremendous pace, kicking up a dust cloud that followed in their wake. As they got closer, I could make out four men, all riding on black Royal Enfields in black leathers, black helmets and tinted visors. I’m not the biggest fan of motorbikes but these classic machines turned my head. They were sleek and curvy, and exuded testosterone, the most popular motorbikes in India and every Westerner’s choice of machine for engine-powered touring. They tore past and I returned to analysing my map whilst spitting dust and expletives. The screeching of rubber grabbed my attention as the bikes turned and accelerated back towards me. The scream of the engines subsided to a low chug as they pulled to a halt. The dust clouds caught up with them, blinding us momentarily before passing on to trouble someone else. A visor was opened and a dust-encrusted face revealed. As he smiled his dust mask cracked and pearly white teeth lit up his face.

  “Danny?”

  “Yes”

  “I’m Stan and this is your Royal Escort.”

  I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. Who? Why? Where? What?

  My questions would have to wait.

  Baksheesh was handed over to the park guard who took it with the practised flick of the wrist that has you questioning whether a transaction actually took place.

  This day was surely the most dangerous stretch of my journey – the Taliban, wild dogs, stone throwing kids, crazy truck drivers, pan fuelled nut jobs – they paled into insignificance as Shirley and I entered this wildlife park containing the largest numbers of elephants and tigers in India, one motorbike to my left flank, one on my right, and two behind guarding the rear.

  My pupils were dilated as I searched every inch of the undergrowth looking for tigers. Stan pulled alongside me and above the roar of his Enfield he asked why I look so concerned.

  “How often do tigers kill humans?”

  He replied that I didn’t have to worry about tigers. I sighed with relief. “It’s the elephants you really need to worry about.” I remembered the story of the tourist killed in Chembakolli one month previously. “But you won’t see them at this time of day.”

  With only slightly less anxiety, I carried on.

  Two minutes later the motorbikes hit the brakes and I ran into the back of Stan, making his already loose number plate fall to the floor. As he leaned over to pick it up and pop it into his pocket, I noticed why we had stopped. Ahead of us in the distance there was a herd of elephants by the left hand side of the road.

  “Problem,” he said, wobbling his head from side to side. His three colleagues all mirrored the wobble of the head enthusiastically. That pretty much meant it was serious. Great!

  They formed a huddle and I wondered if they were talking about their insurance and risk management policy towards cycle tourists.

  Stan walked calmly up to me and stated “We’ve decided. You need to stay right and go fast.”

  Motorcycles go fast, cars go fast, Jeeps go fast. Shirley was a plodder; she didn’t go fast. That was one of the reasons I cared for her so much. I bent over and asked her if she thought she could make it. Stan stood patiently and waited for me to answer. After a moment I responded “We’ll give it a go.” Stan smiled again and flipped his visor down again.

  As we set off towards the elephants, they looked up and noticed us. I imagined us locking eyes and taking up the challenge, like a completely skewed boxing match weigh-in. Keeping to the right, I put the pedal down. My lungs and thighs screamed in a harmony that would have been beautiful had I not been in excruciating pain. I passed by the elephants so closely that I could smell freshly laid dung the size of a football that lay at the feet of one of the larger elephants. I imagined them turning and charging, small saplings crashing to the floor, stones jumping, as the ground rumbled under their weight, the thunder as their rounded feet pounded the earth. The motorbikes had accelerated on. I didn’t want to die, not this close, not now…..

  As the undergrowth flew by, a familiar noise caught my attention and, as I looked to my left, I saw four motorcyclists in hysterics. I looked back and the elephants were still calmly grazing on the finer tips of the fresh bush.

  “You should've seen your face,” they sniggered.

  “I wish I could have seen yours,” I retorted.

  As I left the park and continued, I was joined by more cyclists and motorcyclists. Our number was increasing as was the number of flower wreaths round my neck. I was surprised by how heavy flowers could be as they dragged me down towards the earth.

  Gudalur is generally a very quiet area and the commotion brought people from their houses, some of whom, without reason, grabbed their own bikes to join the procession. Poking fun at each other, the convoy drifted on at a steady tempo. Only the motorbikes accelerated and broke rapidly, showing their status amongst the other bikers.

  Shirley was the centre of attention. Everyone wanted to touch her, to flick the switches of her gears, to stand on her pedals, to stroke her flowers, but she was mine for now. I was savouring every last moment.

  As we passed an opening in the bush, I could hear a regular drum beat in the distance and wondered if it was my heart in my ears or the fast approaching monsoon. Within weeks this road could be like a river, the houses flooded, stock washed away.

  I was told there was about a kilometre to go as we rounded a sharp bend. We pulled out of the turn and I could see a huge crowd gathered in the distance - children, men and women, all dressed in colourful traditional dress - singing and playing drums. Another festival. It made me smile as I wondered what it was in aid of this time. As I got closer, the noise increased as the drummers became more frantic in their efforts.

  I could see their faces now. They were mostly tribal people, but there were others in Western dress. When I got close enough to read the signs, I saw it was some sort of birthday they were celebrating. It seemed strange to see them using the Roman alphabet. ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘Congratulations’. A little closer and I could make out my ‘Velo Love’ logo, the symbol of my trip, in the hands of every child. Some held it upside down, others on its side, but there was no mistaking it. These people were here for me!

  In all the excitement of the journey, I’d forgotten it was my thirty-first birthday – twenty years since I had first dreamed up the idea of cycling around the world to help people.

  I was greeted by a carnival of thronging bodies. School children danced and weaved, tribal leaders waved flags and local journalists shot pictures as mothers, fathers, visitors and workers drummed, sang, cheered, and held banners. I picked up a boy no older than six and placed him on the seat of my bike, and we danced all the way up the red clay road, through the tea plantations, to the local school where cake was to be handed out to one and all.

  As we arrived, I could see the simple school had been decorated with more posters, signs and well wishes. I wanted to be articula
te, to thank them for everything they had done, to tell them of my adventures, and to pass on messages from the children in England. All I could do was crouch down beside Shirley and cry. Tears of joy were rolling down my cheeks. I’d done it. I’d cycled fifteen thousand kilometres from England to India. I’d lived my dream.

  Post script

  Chembakolli, the village that inspired my trip, where the children come to the Vidyadaya School.

  Westerners aren't allowed into the tribal area. Not even Indians are allowed in unless they have ancestry there. As an elephant had killed a trespassing tourist there, I had been told that I wouldn’t be allowed to visit it. It was too dangerous.

  So when I was told we were going anyway, I was totally dumbfounded, apprehensive and excited. Knowing my arrival was imminent, the village leaders and elders, and spiritualists, got together and decided in one day of talking that I could make a visit. The next they decided that I could have a 'sleep over.'

  And they wanted me to cycle in ....

  So, mounting Shirley, we set off again, deep into the jungle. Villages got simpler, then simpler still, and then we were in the jungle and my guides on motorbikes had to leave their machines and follow by foot.

  After a few minutes, the undergrowth parted and opened onto a small clearing where there were two buildings - a nursery and a temple - both made of mud with straw roofs. In the distance I could hear children and make out houses dotted into the hillside. Women carried water from the stream up to their houses, some of which were miles away.