Some people go around the world collecting souvenirs, while
some people go around the world leaving them.
These people are cheerful, sharing, not obsessed with
detail, not bothered about material possessions, believe in ‘vasudeva kautumbam’ – or the world is
one family.
Unfortunately, they are also known as forgetful, absent
minded, idiot, would forget head if not screwed on .. and also as
‘KETAAAAAAAAAN!!’
I had reached Perth after a bit of flight delay and was
staying with Jimmy and Monaz. Bharathi had landed before me and had reached there already. When I reached
there, I noticed that they were all
staring at me like one may stare at a circus performer – waiting for him
to do his next trick.
‘Err...hi...’ I said, looking from side to side and
uncomfortably noticing Bharathi’s grin.
‘Bharathi has told us a lot about you.’ They said.
As far as scary
sentences go, this must rank pretty high.
‘Oh....really?’ I said. ‘It’s all false, I assure you. A
fake. A fabrication. A fiction. A tissue of lies and deception.’
‘Arre, you don’t
even know what she said.’ Monaz’s mom said.
‘Aunty – she is my wife....so unlikely that she would have
said anything complimentary.’
‘True that.’ All the males in the room nodded. Jimmy and his
father in law getting nasty looks from their respective wives.
‘She said you lost your passport!’
‘THAT’S NOT TRUE! THAT’S A FALSE ALLEGATION! THAT’S SLANDER!
CALUMNY! CHARACTER ASSASINATION!’
‘Mummy..’ Monaz interrupted. ‘She said that he WASHED his
passport’
‘Er....’ I went silent.
‘You really did??’ they all stared at me round eyed. I
wiggled with embarrassment.
‘Well...technically I didn’t wash my passport. She did.’ I
pointed at Bharathi. They all turned to look at her.
‘The fool gave me his pant to wash with his passport in one
pocket and his goggles in the other...’
‘You should have checked the pockets! What kind of dhobi are
you?’ I protested
‘...and imagine my state when I pulled his pant out of the
dryer and noticed something in its pocket and pulled out a passport which had
been in the washing machine for a full wash and spin and in the dryer for 1
hour. I nearly had a heart attack.’ She continued, completely ignoring my
interruption.
‘And what did he say
when you showed him his washed passport?’
‘HE WAS HARDLY BOTHERED! HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD AND SAID
‘WELL IT’S TOO LATE TO WORRY NOW’ AND WENT TO SLEEP!!! I WAS DYING THERE, AND HE MERRILY GOES TO
SLEEP!!!’
They were all looking at me in shock.
‘And what happened after that?’
‘Well, it was a bit of a circus, but we got him back safe
and sound.’
‘Show the passport, show the passport! ‘they begged and I
reluctantly showed them the bruised and battered passport, and they all oohed
and aahed over it. Clearly, I was a paisa vasool entertainment.
‘So what’s the tally now?’ Bharathi asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘What all have you lost on this trip?’
‘Ha!’ I was stung. ‘What have I lost? That’s rich. That’s
fine. That’s shameless. Who was the one who lost my gamcha in South Africa, eh?
Who was that forgetful anti-kleptomaniac? Who? It was you! You! You! You!’ I
said, pointing my finger dramatically at her.
‘Anti – kleptomaniac?’ uncle asked, after a pause.
‘Well....a kleptomaniac is a person who goes around taking
things...so an anti-kleptomaniac is someone who leaves things behind.’
‘Ah. OK. Nice one.’
‘Thank you.’ I turned my attention back to Bharathi ‘for
your kind information madam – I have not lost a single thing on this trip. Not
a sock, not a hankerchief, not a safety pin. You, on the other hand, have lost
an irreplaceable gamcha. So you are the scatterbrain here, not me! YOU YOU
YOU! BUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA’ I roared with laughter, and everyone tapped a
finger on their foreheads and looked at Bharathi with sympathy.
Bharathi just shrugged with a ‘You can’t win them all’
expression and said, ‘OK, never mind. Let’s start listing down the things to do
before we start our road trip. Firstly, you have to get a mobile connection...’
‘I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT BEFORE YOU TOLD ME TO! I WIN!
HAHAHAHA’ I cried in joy, and then looking at the stunned faces in the room,
realised that my joy was disproportionate to the issue. ‘Er...I mean.. I
already picked up a sim card at the airport.’
‘OK...next...Aussie currency. We have already done that, by
taking a travel card. (that story is here) Give me the card then.’ She said.
‘OK.’ I said confidently. I had kept all documentation
safely in separate plastic folders in my computer bag. My passport, visa,
yellow fever vaccination certificate, travel itineraries, etc.
I pulled out my bag and took out my folder casually and
looked inside. Then looked again, with a little more concentration. Then looked
again. And again. This time with full concentration. Then picked up my bag and
rummaged through it again. And again. And again. And again.
Then I looked up.
‘YOU DIDNT!!!’ Bharathi looked at me with horror.
‘Well...er...’
‘YOU DIDNT!!!’
‘What happened dickra?’
‘THIS IDIOT HAS LOST THE TRAVEL CARD!’
‘Well, it’s not lost exactly...’ I said. ‘...I just don’t
know where it is....’
‘Where can it be then?’ Uncle said, trying to give constructive advice. I thought a bit.
‘Well...it could be in the hotel in Johannesburg...or at
Johannesburg airport ....or in the plane from Johannesburg to Doha...or in Doha
airport ....or in the hotel in Doha...or in the plane from Doha to Perth....or
in Perth airport...’
I looked around to see everyone’s mouth open in ‘O’s of
shock.
‘So...it could be anywhere on three continents.’ She-who-must-be-obeyed
said, after a pause.
‘Er...yes.’
‘GRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr’ She ground her teeth like a big truck
changing gears and made a deep throaty sound like a tigress about to pounce on
her prey. Just a can of yellow paint and some whiskers were required to
complete the illusion.
Neville came running into the room, shouting ‘I AM
BACK.....WHAT DID I MISS?’
‘Ooooh...what fun....he has lost all their money!’
‘It could be anywhere in 3 continents!’
‘She is going to kick him so hard, he is going to be
incontinent...hehehe...’
The Karani’s and the
Kasad’s settled comfortably on the sofa and pulled out some popcorn! This is
going to be fun! They starting placing bets
’10 bucks on a scream of 3.2 on the richter scale!’
’1 gets 50 that she will give a roundhouse kick to the
face!’
‘best odds on her biting several pieces out of his leg!’
But then suddenly
Jimmy thought about how are they going to get back without any money? Shit.
...they will stay in Perth forever!
‘I will call the airport.’ He said brightly ‘and ask if they
have found anything.’
He googled the number and called, and immediately got a
recorded message saying that the office is closed now but if he was of a
hopeful and trusting disposition, he should leave his contact details and issue
and they would get back to him. Maybe they sell this database of numbers of
trusting and hopeful people to telemarketers.
We all were watching She-who-must-be-obeyed like the villagers of Pompeii must have watched
the mountain glow and bulge just before the explosion – a weird fascination and
urge to watch inspite of knowing that a cataclysm was on the way.
‘So, don’t you think that you should call ICICI and cancel
the card?’ she asked with a dangerous calm.
‘Er...OK...I will
call...good idea...’ I replied. ‘Wasn’t it a good thing that I got that SIM
card with unlimited calling to India, hey?’ I said, trying to mention something
positive to lighten the mood, but quailed at the expression on her face.
Now, ICICI has the worst customer service possible for
travel cards. They don’t have an online portal to report lost cards, they don’t
even have an online portal for travel cards at all. It is hidden somewhere on
their sight, where only a hacking wizard can find it. They don’t have an
international hot line. They don’t have anything.
Finally, I called the normal ICICI phone banking number, and
got a message saying that they have only limited customer service before 6 AM. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea that
they didn’t have 24/7 phonebanking.
But they had a special portal to report lost card – press
zero for lost card. I did that, then it asked me whether I wanted to report
lost card for banking, credit card or prepaid card. Thats it. No specific
option for international travel card.
I deliberated for sometime before pressing the ‘credit card
and prepaid card option’ but I had deliberated too long. The system cut me off.
Cursing a bit, I dialled again. This time, the system first
informed me proudly that they were at the very forefront of technology and had
instituted a ‘voice recognition’ technology, then they told me that only
limited options of phone banking were available because it was so fucking early
in the morning, then they asked me if I preferred English, hindi or Marathi,
then asked me to report lost card, and then asked me if I meant to report ATM
card, debit card, credit card or prepaid card. After I chose credit or prepaid
– it asked me ‘all your credit cards will be disabled permanently!! Are you sure?
Are you really sure? Are you really really REAALLLLLLLLY sure?’ and as I
thought about it, it decided that I was too bloody slow, and threw me out.
My blood pressure spiked to dangerous levels.
Fuming, I decided to call my relationship manager and ask
him to do the needful. First, I tried to whatsapp him. no response. Then I
tried VOIP Whatsapp calling. No response. Then I tried calling him on mobile.
No response.
Seeing my rigid face and bulging veins, even Bharathi didn’t
make any inflammatory comment.
‘Maybe he is not taking the call because he doesn’t
recognise your aussie number.’ She said ‘try sending him a message telling him
that it is you calling.’
I whatsapped him, smsed him, emailed him, but no response.
‘Fuck this.’ I said ‘Why am I wasting time with these guys?
Sambo, My batchmate, is some hotshot in that branch – I will call him.’
‘It’s still early in India.’ Bharathi said ‘You will disturb
him.’
‘That will be even more fun.’ I said, and called Sambo – but
again, no response. I messaged him and waited, but still no response.
‘OOOOOO.....HE CANT GET THROUGH.....OOOOO....SOMEONE WILL
WITHDRAW ALL OUR MONEY AND WE WILL BE LEFT PENNILESS.....OOOOOOO....HOW WILL I
GET BACK TO INDIA......OOOOOO...MY CHILD...HOW WILL SHE SURVIVE WITHOUT MEEEEEEEEEEE’
Bharathi wailed.
Seeing that, jimmy started wailing too ‘OOOOOO.....HOW WILL
THEY GET BACK TO INDIA.....OOOOO....THEY WILL STAY HERE.....OOOOOO....HOW WILL
I EXPLAIN TO THE IMMIGRATION SERVICE.....OOOOOOO....’
‘Here...relax...’ I said ‘I will call the ICICI portal
again.’
I called them again, and again went through all the
nonsense...welcome to ICICI bank....voice recognition tech..blalbla...press 1
for English 2 for hindi...press 0 to report lost card...press 1 for ATM card
..2 for Debit card...3 for credit and prepaid...all you cards will be blocked
and you will be a pauper and no dukaandaar will ever treat you properly
again...are you sure..are you really sure....are you really REALLY sure?
YES GODDAMIT! I am sure. I pressed the button.
And the bloody call went to a human operator! I was shocked!
If the call was going to be routed to a human – why on earth
have that irritating waste of time
menu?!!
Idiots!
‘Yes sir....Welcome to ICICI bank...I am soandso
speaking...how can I assist you?’
I almost wept with joy, and the tension level in the room
abated. ‘YES YES YES...please help me...BOO HOO HOO...I am calling from
Australia and I seem to be have been on hold for most of my adult life. I have
lost my travel card...’ and I told him the story.
‘OK sir, no problem...I will connect you to the team
responsible.’ He said and again I was on hold! ‘thank you for calling ICICI
bank! Please wait as all the operators are laughing at you for being such an
idiot! Thank you for calling ICICI bank....’
After several minutes, finally the call was answered.
‘Yeah?’
‘Thank god you picked up! Listen, this is an emergency! I am
calling from Australia!....’ and again I told him the story.
‘OK...so you want to block the card...please tell me the
card number.’
What a damn stupid thing to ask. I have lost the card –
which I have never used – how am I supposed to know the 16 digit card number?
‘I don’t know it, I am afraid.’
‘Oh you don’t know it? Really? What an idiot you are!. OK...tell
me your passport number then.’
I told him, and the line went dead for several seconds,
punctuated only by vague ticking and tapping sounds. The tension mounted.
Finally he said ‘I can’t find any card on this passport
number. That’s strange. Tell me your birthdate please.’
‘Wont it be easier if I tell you my bank account number?’
‘No sir...we don’t have bank details here.’ So I told him my
birth date. More tapping.
‘I don’t have any records sir’ he said finally. ‘Are you
sure you took the card from ICICI?’
‘Yes of course I did.’ I snapped. ‘It’s an ICICI multi
currency travel card.’
‘AH!’ he said, with the air of a person who’s problems are
solved. ‘I SEE! This is just the travel card department...you want the MULTI
currency travel card department....I will connect you.’ And tuk! He vanished.
‘thank you for calling ICICI bank! Now please fuck off!’ and
the line got cut!
I was left staring at the phone.
I looked up and everyone in the room backed away from me. My
eyes were bloodshot, my incisors were growing into fangs and I must have been
looking like Dr Jekyll turning into Mr Hyde. I was gripping the phone so
tightly, I was a good thing I didn’t crush it into pulp.
I tried to calm down - might as well have a shit, I thought.
Life is always better after a shit.
While shitting, I had a bright idea. My relationship manager
might not be taking the call for any reason, but my classmate Sambo would
definitely have taken a call. Maybe his number has changed. And I knew where to
find his correct number – it would be in the class whatsapp group! I checked
and sure enough, the number was different from the one I had been calling.
I called the new number and a puzzled voice answered ‘hello?’
Sighing with relief,
I told him the whole story, and asked him to get the card blocked.
‘Can’t do that Kejo’ he replied ‘Only the call centre can
block your card. We have strict security procedures.’
‘WHAT! But I have been trying to get through to them for
hours...centuries...aeons!’
But he would not be moved. He could try to do something once the office opened after a
couple of hours, else my only bet was the call center.
I had another good idea while sitting on the pot. I had got
the number of my travel card in a mail when I had written to ICICI complaining about
their procedures. I checked and found it! Now I knew my card number! Hallejulah
!
Moodily, I tried again, and jumped through all their hoops
again. Press 1, press 2, press boob, press your throat and try to kill
yourself... this time I confidently entered my card number....and got through
to a human operator!
So, it made no difference whasoever, if you enter or don’t enter
your card number!
‘OOH! THANK GOD!!’ I screamed, probably scaring the poor
fellow. ‘I have lost my multi currency travel card and I want to block
it....connect me to the MULTI CURRENCY TRAVEL CARD department...not to the
travel card department...otherwise I will combust spontaneously here and cause
third degree burns to everyone around!’
Luckily I got through this time to the correct department and
to a very sweet guy, who found my card and blocked it. May the heavens shower
blessings upon him!
Finally! Oof. What an
ordeal it was. Talk about an inefficient system . Good thing I had unlimited
calling to India, or I would have been in the soup. This call would have cost
the big bucks – it had taken so long to get things done!
I cooled down my frazzled nerves with a cup of tea, and saw
Uncle and Aunty staring admiringly at us.
‘How cool you both are!’ aunty said. ‘No shouting, screaming
or panic.’
‘I would have been hanged from the nearest lamp post by now,
if I had done something as stupid as this.’ Uncle agreed, and aunty gave him a
nasty look.
‘What to do...’ Bharathi said, as she linked her arm in mine.
‘You get used to it, when he loses something or the other all the time.’
‘But what will you do for money now?’ Uncle asked.
‘Oh, that’s not a problem.’ Bharathi replied. ‘We will
withdraw from ATM. I just wanted to make sure that no one uses that card to
withdraw all our money.’
‘Now you be careful!’ uncle and aunty wagged their finger at
me. ‘Don’t forget anything else.’
‘No no...’ I replied. ‘I will be very careful. Once bitten,
twice shy and all that.’
We made our way out and Neville dropped us to the car hire
shop where we were to pick up our car for our three week driving holiday across
Western Australia.
‘We are very late....we should have made an earlier start.’
She-who-must-be-obeyed grumbled. ‘What time is it?’
I set my alarm for 4.30 AM, and was so excited that I kept
getting up in the night and checking my watch suspiciously. Finally when the alarm rang at 4.30, I jumped
out of bed with enthusiasm – because I was going shark cage diving!
(Not my photo - from internet)
The Great white shark is one of nature’s most efficient
predators, and till very recently, the only way one could have a close up and
personal look at this magnificent animal in the wild was by jumping in the
water and shouting ‘AAARRGHH SAVE
MEEEEEEEEE...’ shortly before becoming a tasty snack for the hungry shark.
But now they have figured out a convenient way for you to
enjoy a sight of this apex predator and survive the experience and go back and
boast about it – they lower a cage into the water by the side of the boat and
the divers can go and sit inside the cage. Then the boat wala dumps some fish
waste into the water to attract the sharks and when the shark comes sniffing
around, they tie some fish heads to a rope and throw them in the water. When the
shark tries to snap at the fish heads, they jerk the rope and pull it out of
the sharks reach – as you might tease a dog by offering it a biscuit and
pulling it away when the dog jumps for it. Substitute the image of the dog with
a giant tiger with huge fangs and rippling muscles.
(not my photo - from internet)
Anyway, I was up at 4.30 and congratulating myself for being
the first guy to awaken on a cold winter morning, when I heard some voices and
laughter from the street below; and when I looked down I saw that it was a
bunch of my young fellow hostelites – they were just coming back from a night
of partying and clubbing.
I suddenly felt very old.
I got ready and waited and finally at 5.30 a guy came to the
door and asked ‘Shark cage diving’ In a deep voice and ushered me to the
collection van. He was tall and muscular and looked like a hero of a Wilbur
Smith novel. You could just imagine him being a rancher in wild Africa or an
elephant hunter or a diamond prospector or any amount of heroic figures.
The bus was full of sleepy figures and as it was dark and
misty outside, I also decided to rest my eyes for a minute – and when I opened
them – I had been magically transported to the Shark Cage diving office at
Gansbaai.
‘Wow – that was quick!’ I thought....but then I realised
that I had been asleep for two hours and felt a little crushed.
We got out of the bus and went up to their office where they
had a nice breakfast laid out. We were all hungry and loaded our plates with
all kinds of stuff. We had just started tucking in when the organiser comes and
says ‘Guys – you better chew your food very thoroughly – make it into a fine
paste before you swallow it.’
‘Why?’ I asked thickly, my mouth full of ham sandwich.
‘Well, there’s a bit of a swell ,so it might be rough on the
boat. So when you puke, it’s better to puke out a fine paste rather than big
bits which might get stuck in your windpipe’
That caused a bit of a silence in the hall, as everyone
looked at their plate and thought about all that was already inside and a lot
of people quietly put their plate aside.
After everyone was through, the dive master gave us hi s
instructions. He explained how the thing would work – the fish waste would be
put into the water to attract the sharks and once the sharks came, they would
lower the cage in the water and five people at a time would enter the cage.
When the boat crew saw a shark they would shout ‘get down!’ and the divers
should go underwater and they would see the shark clearly.
‘Absolutely no one will put their hands or legs outside the
cage – no one will try to touch the shark. Got it?’
We nodded our heads solemnly. We liked our appendages attached.
‘Everyone has to put on a wetsuit before getting into the
water. Please don’t urinate in the wet suit – apart from causing the suit to
stink, you will drive the sharks away as they don’t like the smell of human
urine.’
OHO – I thought – That’s what it is! A survival mechanism! When
you are scared you piss in your pants because it drives the sharks away.
‘If you pee in your wet suit you clean it, and if you crap
in your wetsuit you buy it! Also, another thing – the side of the boat on which
we hang the cage is the shark side, and if you feel sick and want to puke then
the other side is the sick side. Please do not puke in the cage, or in the
toilets or from the top deck. Please do not try to hold it in either – feel free
to puke on the sick side – there is no shame in it, it’s a normal human
reaction.’
And with these encouraging words, we got on the ship and
made way for the shark point. It was a
bit choppy on the way out, but nothing too bad. Once they came to their place,
they started throwing the fish bits out to attract the sharks.
After an anxious wait, suddenly the cry went up ‘There! Look
there!’
And underneath the water
I saw the familiar torpedo shape and triangular fin which I had seen a
thousand times before in pictures and photos and movies!
The great white shark!
What a sight it was! It was at least 4-5 metres long – that’s
13 feet of killer shark! Wow!
‘Now do you believe us?’ the dive master asked in excitement
‘Now do you believe that there are great white sharks?’
‘There’s another one!’ the cry went up. Then a disappointed
voice ‘That’s only about 3 metres...its only a baby.’
The boat crew chuckled. ‘You jump in then, and YOU tell him
that he is a baby.’
They lowered the cage and everyone started to get changed
into wet suits. Man, it was a real struggle to get into that wet suit. I had to
huff and puff and stretch and pull and nearly dislocate several joints before I
managed to get into that suit.
By that time, the first five divers had entered the cage. They
confidently jumped into the water and shouted ‘AAAAARRRGHHHHHH’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Did they see a shark?’
‘no no..’ the dive master chuckled ‘the water is very cold’
‘DOWN GUYS DOWN’ a crew member bawled, and we rushed to the
side of the boat to see the shark come in.
‘WOOOOOOOHOOOOOO!’ the divers screamed in joy as they came
out of the water. ‘WHAT A SIGHT!’
‘DOWN DOWN DOWN’ and again all of them dipped their heads.
After a few minutes, the dive master swapped them out and it
was my turn.
I eagerly jumped into the water and nearly had a cardiac
arrest due to the shock of the cold water.
WHAT THE #@$*@#@! ARRGGHHHH...I CANT FEEL MY LEGS! I CANT FEEL MY BALLS!
‘DOWN DOWN DOWN’ the crewman bawled and we dunked our heads
under the freezing cold water. The cold cold water made my head ache, but I forgot
everything as I stared at the huge creature in front of me.
It was massive. It was regal. It was a killer. It was the
king of the sea.
That streamlined body, those rippling muscles, those
teeth...I noticed anew – I knew it theoretically, but actually seeing it was
something else – that it had two rows of teeth – one pointing outwards and one
pointing inwards. Nothing caught in those teeth was going anywhere except
inside the shark.
It was the same feeling you get when you see a wild tiger
for the first time in a jungle – except of course that various parts of my body
were shutting down due to the cold. Permanent sterility – here I come.
I came out of the water and gasped in air, and immediately
came the stentorian shout –DOWN DOWN DOWN’
and I took a deep breath again and went down.
The shark had just swum lazily by, when it noticed the bag
of fish heads – and in fraction of a second, it transformed from a quiet lazy
swimmer to a killing machine! All muscles tightened and in less time than it
takes to tell, it turned and zoomed towards the packet, mouth wide open showing
all those teeth and coming straight at us.
The crewman pulled it away at the last moment, much to the
irritation of the shark, who went off thinking WTF! and we surfaced and went
WHOOOOO...WHAT A SIGHT, when the crew alerted us again ‘DOWN DOWN DOWN’
The shark was back and it was pissed! The crewman threw out
the bag of fish heads again and the shark raced for it! No bullshit this time –
it meant business. But again, the bag was pulled out but the shark couldn’t stop
its forward momentum and came and crashed against the tank, right in front of
my face!
We were less than 6 inches apart! I stared into that shark’s
eyes at point blank range!
Nothing happened – the cage held, and the shark swam away
bemused. But what a feeling it was! I burst upwards and screamed out WOOO HOOO
as everyone applauded.
It was the ultimate
sighting.
‘You guys don’t know how lucky you are.’ The dive master
said to us on the way back. ‘the weather, the lighting, the shark experience –
it was the best we have had in months.’
No kidding, I said. It was awesome.
‘By the way ...’ the dive master asked as we were leaving. ‘How
come you were not scared? I have seen so many people, and they would have shit
their pants, but you were quite calm. How come?’
I shrugged.
‘Ah. The Shark was OK.....but not a patch on my wife. You
should see her when she is in a temper.’
Just like cricket, my interaction with it consists of
reading about it than actually experiencing it.
I may not be able to bowl a
wicked bouncer or smash a ball for six, but by golly – I can sure talk about
it. I can talk about with knowledge and passion and emotion and ....well, I can
talk a lot about it, but haven’t touched a bat or ball for ages.
Similarly, I have read a lot about wine – I have read
stories based on wine, loved characters who talk about wine, realised that the
simplest way to show that a character is upper class and erudite is to show him
having a deep knowledge of wine. I read about types of wine – cabernet
sauvignon, and merlot and pinot noir and all that, and can talk glibly about
tannins and grape varieties and how ironic it is that the famous Shiraz grape
comes from a town in Iraq where it is probably illegal to make, drink or even
think about wine, etc etc.
But actually drinking the stuff – not so much.
I
experimented as much as I could afford with various types of wines – but that
was a short lived experiment during my
forced bachelorhood.
After the return of She-who-must-be-obeyed my home wine drinking came to a screeching
halt under her incandescent eye. Trying
to get friends to drink wine resulted only in incredulous looks. Trying to make friends with people who were
already wine drinkers got me even more incredulous looks.
She-who-must-be-obeyed sneered at my attempts to drink wine
and grandly announced that she was sending me on a wine tour in South Africa.
‘Go and drink wine,
you drunken sot.’ She said as she booked the tour ‘lower yourself to the level
of the beasts in the field if you wish.’
‘What nonsense.’ I said, stung. ‘I will have you know that
wine is a thing of great culture.’
‘The only way you will have culture in you is when you eat
some yoghurt re!’ she retorted.
‘Anyway, the tiny tot has exams till then, so I can’t move
anywhere – so you go a couple of days earlier and do all these things that I am
not interested in.’
OK, I thought – it’s a good idea to keep her away from wine
makers. She will sneer at them so much that they will get all dispirited and
depressed and commit suicide or something and the whole of South African wine
industry will be affected and it will be all my fault.
The thing about wine is that it is a beautiful and nuanced
drink, and it is such fun to write about.
‘This wine has a deep
straw colour with hints of lime green on the rim. The nose is a complex melange
of tropical fruits, such as guava and papayas with greener Sauvignon blanc
aromas such as asparagus and lemon grass. The flavours are rich and full and
mirror the aromas on the nose. This wine is mouth filling with an apple texture,
a slight grip on the finish and a lingering crisp aftertaste.’
‘She’ read this with a scowl
‘Saala – is this wine or a fruit cocktail?’
This one is even better, I said – showing her the
description of the Chardonnay ‘There
is an abundance of fresh fruit aromas on the nose; ripe honeydew melon,
pineapple, peach and citrus fruit with a hint of toasted oak. The palate is
fresh and fruit driven with a creamy mild palate, a hint of toast on the finish
with a long zesty aftertaste.’
Would the writer be so passionate when writing about the
actual fruit instead of the wine? I wondered.
This same writer must be the guy whom all the Indian
restaurants employ when writing their fancy menus. A guy who can translate dal
chaawal into ‘A delectable preparation of
the finest golden lentils from central India, mixed with the aromatic jasmine-white fluffy long grains of the
finest rice from Kerala topped with shiny salt crystals from the romantic lands
of Kutch.’
So the big day arrived -
and the very first day in south Africa, I was picked up at the hostel by
a sweet lady who was our guide. I was the first person she picked up, and she
went about the town picking up the rest of the group – an Indo-Canadian, A
Scotswoman, a couple of guys from Ivory coast, a bunch of expat students from
Cape university.
She started by taking us through the cellar and the factory
and telling us how wine is made, but very soon took us to a table and started
plying us with wine.We started off with a couple of Champagnes, then some white
wines, then some red wines and then ended with some sweet wines.
‘This is a cabernet sauvignon’ she would say, pouring a
little bit of wine into each glass . ‘It is a very young wine, bottled in 2013
and has top notes of jasmine, peach and whatever’ and we would all drink and say ‘hmm hmm’ and
swirl the wine in our mouth and get amazed at the wonderful taste.
It sounds like a load
of cock when you hear about it – but you can actually get the various tastes
that they are talking about. And when you think that these differing tastes
were brought about without any external agents – purely through the
fermentation of grapes – it’s bloody amazing! You have to try it to get it..
To quote from
the movie ‘Sideways’ – ‘I like to think about the life of wine...how it’s like
a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes
were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all
the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it’s an old wine, how many
of them must be dead by now. I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I
opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I’d opened it on
any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it’s constantly
evolving and gaining complexity...and it tastes so fucking good!’
I could actually feel the difference between each wine and
appreciate the qualities of different types of wine.
At first.
After the third winery, they were all tasting the same to me
and we were all going HAHAHAHA and HOHOHOHOHO and slapping each other on the
back. The ancient romans used to say ‘In Vino Veritas’ – In wine there is
truth, but we can also say – ‘In Vino Companis’ – where there is wine, there is
good companionship.
The wine was
excellent, the wineries were beautiful, the scenery of the wine country was
simply outstanding, and the group was very friendly - what more can one ask for? We had a fantastic lunch at a winery– I had a
Cape malay dish called ‘Bobotie’ – which was a sweet and spicy mince meat dish
which was absolutely smashing.
At the last winery, there was also a cheese tasting, where
we pigged out on different kinds of cheese -
from the fresh Feta cheese at one end ( which tasted like a very salty
paneer) to an old blue cheese at the other end (which smelt and tasted like disgusting
old socks) but had some truly delicious ones in the middle – one sweet fruity
one which tasted as good as cheesecake and a couple of spicy ones which were
simply yum.
At the end of it, she dropped us back at our hostels – and
as I was the first to be picked up, I was the last to be dropped off. I didn't
mind it at all as it gave me a chance to see Cape Town.
As she dropped me off, she called out to me and I put my
hand in my pocked as I thought she was asking for a tip...
but it turned out to
be quite the reverse!
‘As a reward for your patience, I would like to give you a
present’ she said, and handed me a bottle of wine. ‘Please enjoy this with your
family.’
I was speechless, and quite touched. What a lovely gesture.
We had a
great time chilling out in Goa, but after a few days my bug started itching
again. Part of the reason was that Bharathi was on my case as usual. ‘How long
will you spend pigging out in Goa you fat slob?’ she would begin ‘Kitne baar
wahi Kings beer and wahi goan sausage khaata rahega? However much you lech at
those Russian sweeties, you are not going to get anywhere with them. Get up!
Explore! See the world! Heard melodies are sweet, but unheard melodies are
sweeter still...’ and bla bla bla
I agreed. Goa
is great, but the road goes ever on.
After chilling
for a couple of days, and soaking up a fair share of Kings beer and good food,
I decided to move on and do a bit of
solo ride and explore NH17 till Mangalore. As it is, I had developed
enough good karma by sharing photos of good food and drink with the world at
large on Facebook and brightening their day for them. It was true that mostly
they responded in abuses and gaalis, and fond wishes that I get diarrhoea and
piles, but that was just their base mind speaking – their immortal soul was
grateful for the pics that diverted their mind away from their dull and dreary
lives.
One issue in
Goa was the shack that we were living in was like the crooked house that the
crooked man lived in – all it lacked was a crooked cat and a crooked mouse. The
whole hut was tilted at a 15 degree angle, and just standing in it made you
feel that you were drunk. At night the issue would become dire, as I would roll
down the side of the bed, and Rishi would roll down close to me and snore - KHARR KHURRR ARRRKHHH KHARRR KHURRRRRR
ARRGHHHH AAAAKHHHHH KHAARRRRR KHURRRRRRRright in my ear, until I developed
nightmares and woke up with a start!
So while Goa
was great, I was mighty relieved when I geared up and set out – at least I
would be able to sleep in peace.
Goa to
Mangalore is only 350 KM, and if you so wish, you can do it in a day on bike.
Which leaves you plenty of room to check out places on the side and still reach
Mangalore peacefully.
Bharathi had
done the Madgaon to Mangalore stretch on cycle before our marriage, and had
enjoyed the journey. She looked down on wimps who did the stretch on powered
transport – ‘Motor bikes is for wimps rey’ she would look down her tiny nose at
me ‘A real man would do it on a bicycle. Do it on your own power, I say – not
on the liquefied remains of long dead dinosaurs!’
Hmm – I would
say. More power to the brave cyclists – but I have absolutely no such
intentions.
She suggested
that I do the Dandeli loop and check out the forests of Dandeli and then come
down to the coast to Gokarna. OK, I said – no problem.
I hit NH17,
passed Panjim and Ponda, and then hit NH4A to cross into Karnataka. At the
border, I watched the police make everyone get out of their bus to check the
bus for booze. What nonsense – what is the point in harassing civilians like
this? How much booze can they smuggle in anyway? Nothing but a racket to get
bribes. They looked at me curiously as a solo rider, but didn’t bother me in
any way.
When the road
entered the Dandeli area, it was great fun to ride the curves – there was not
much traffic and one could really bend the bike on the turns and scrape the
footpegs and the exhaust. I had changed the tyres just before the ride, and
could feel the difference in the grip – so I could bend the bike really low and
trust in the grip of the tyres. What fun it was! You can really send the bike
on the turns – use the power of 500 cc to get some nice momentum and use the
grip of the new rubber to get some nice angle on the turns. What with all the protective gear and all, you
cant really feel the wind in your hair and skin, but it gives you a feeling of
comfort – that if you do prang the bike for any reason, you will at least be
protected.
Apart from the
fun of the turns and the empty roads, there was not much to see or experience
out there though, and after riding for quite some time, I stopped at a roadside
stall near Dandeli town for a bite, and after ordering, I asked them what there
was to see or do out here – why was it so well known?
Well, they
answered , there was nothing on the road as such. You can live in a resort or a
homestay and go for jungle safari or trek or river rafting – that was the main
thing out here. Stay in the jungle away from city life and chill with friends.
She looked at me curiously – most people come in groups to have fun – have you
come alone?
Hmm. Clearly
this was not the place for a solo biker – I decided to head back to the coast
and check out Gokarna. I looped around Dandeli village and turned back towards
the coast. It was already late afternoon and I didn’t want to get caught in the
hills in the dark. While the shady roads were pleasant, there was nothing to
see or do in here.
I smiled to
myself as I passed a village called ‘Tatti gira’. I could just imagine the
conversation on how the village was named –
‘Man I had a giant crap here, I felt so
relieved!’
‘Cool man – I
want to have a nice crap too! Lets stay here and build a village here, and call
it ‘The place where your constipation gets cured’’
‘That’s too
long a name – names should be short and descriptive.’
‘OK...call it
‘Plop Plop’?’
‘Not that
descriptive!’
‘Ok – what
about ‘Crapfall’? like y’know – waterfall, nightfall....crapfall’
‘Sounds good,
just translate to hindi and we are done.’
I nearly fell
off my bike laughing, when I passed the next village – Tatti Hila!
I passed
Yellapur, and was on my way to Ankola, when suddenly I saw a sign that said ‘Magod
falls – 15 Km’.
On a sudden whim, I went for it. It was getting late and would
be dark soon – but hey, the theme of the trip was to explore! I went 15 km on
steadily worsening roads, and was wondering where I was going, when I finally
came to the place.
It wasn’t a
small viewing area like I had imagined for some reason, but a large
tourism/picnic area created by the forest department. They charged me Rs 5 for
entry, which is quite a bit for a government property. There was a nice view of
the waterfall and mountain and valley, and quite a large and impressive picnic
area. There were rooms to stay – unfortunately, you have to book them from the
forest office in Yellapur, can’t book on the spot – and toilets and stuff. And
an unfortunate amount of rubbish left behind by the visitors – paper and
thermocol plates, glasses, plastic bags, etc – no doubt from school picnics. I
sighed – why are people such litterbugs? The one thing that led me to respect
Modi was that the first thing he did on becoming PM was to start the ‘Swachh India’
mission. There was no political mileage in that – he must have done that
because he believes in it. All power to Modi I say – support the Swachh India
mission!
After enjoying
the view for a bit, I set out for the road again. The view had been great, and
made that much sweeter by the random impulse part of it.
By the time I
hit the highway, it was already dark, and Om beach, Gokarna was surprisingly
far away from the main road. It felt like I had been riding for hours and hours
when I finally came to the ‘Om beach – 1 km’ sign and I was tired, my ass was
on fire and it was pitch dark.
Imagine my
surprise when I come to the Om beach parking area and see nothing around – no
hotels, no beach – nothing! Just a poky little parking lot.
I asked an
autowala where the hotels were, and he told me that they were next to ‘Sa swara
hotel’ so I turned the bike and my heart sank when I saw that Sa-Swara was a
fancy meditation resort, who would definitely not even allow me inside the
gate, even if I wanted to go. I went there and as the security guy came out to
shoo me off, I asked him where the residential hotels were.
He pointed at
one kaccha road going down the side and told me to go down there. I went down
that kaccha road for kilometres, wondering what on earth was going on – no
lights, no tar road, no signs – nothing. It looked like the unlikeliest
approach road in history to a popular beach, but I kept passing autos labouring
the slope and so I knew that I was on the right track.
Om beach had
become popular with hippies in the 80’s after Goa became too commercialised,
and I could see why. Even now it was a bloody task to reach there – at that
time, it would have taken days and days of walk just reach here. None of the
locals would have been interested, and definitely no casual tourists. The
hardcore hippies could have lived happily in the splendid isolation they wanted
and enjoyed the commune lifestyle without any hassles.
Then finally
there were some lights – not government lights – probably put up by the hotel
walas, and suddenly the road stopped in front of a toilet. End of road.
Eh? WTF?
Opposite the
toilet was the back gate of a hotel, so I parked the bike, put the helmet on
the handlebar and went curiously to the hotel. It was quite a big hotel on the
inside and was surprisingly full. Uh Oh.
I found the
reception and asked for a room, and got the good news that the hotel was full
to bursting.
‘Wonderful.’ I
replied. ‘I cant think of anything better that I would have rather heard.’ But
my sarcasm was lost on him. It was sar-chasm. i.e. there was a huge gap between
my attempt at humour and his understanding. ‘But where is the beach anyway?’
He pointed to
a small wooden bridge. ‘Just there saar – you can try your luck - there are a lot of shacks on the beach. But
you can’t park your bike in front of my gate.’
‘Not a problem
dude’ I assured him. ‘As soon as I get a room, I will move the bike’
‘IF you get a
room’ I thought I heard him murmur into his beard.
I crossed the
bridge – and FINALLY the beach was there. It was a tiny beach, compared to all
its siblings that I had been frolicking on till now, and the reason it was
called OM beach was that it was actually 2 little crescent shaped beaches side
by side.
You could
easily have called it ‘Buttocks beach’ as well – that description would have
been more accurate than OM, though it would have been questionable in the
attractiveness stakes. You might not have found too many hippies wanting to
stay in Buttocks beach.
I was on one
cheek of the buttock, and saw that the whole beach was covered from point to
point with shacks and restaurants. So much for the deserted beach of hippie
memory. It was like an asscheek full of pimples.
And each and
every bloody shack was full!
I tramped all
over the beach, and scared the bejeesus out of people by arising out of the
dark in full biker gear. The sight of a strange figure dressed all in black and
looking like the alien from ‘Predator’ caused a wave of panic all over the
Asscheek. Dogs started barking, nervous
firangs spilt their drinks, honeymooning Indian couples paled and ran for their
rooms and kannadiga waiters went pale and looked like Kashmiri waiters.
Out of sheer
cussedness, I went to each and every hotel there and saw that each and every
pustule on that bum cheek was full, and then I wearily went back to that first
hotel and bought a bottle of water.
‘No room eh?’
the owner asked, somewhat sympathetically.
‘No....do you
have any place to sleep here? I have a sleeping bag.’ I asked pathetically, but
he was not biting and firmly shook his head.
‘So where can
I find accommodation now?’
‘Kudle beach.
Its a couple of kilometres from here. If not there, then back in Gokarna town.’
I remembered
seeing the turnoff to Kudle beach, so I remounted my bike and went back up that
mysterious path, past the snooty SaSwara and took the turn off to Kudle. When I
reached there, my heart sank to see that the road ended at the top of the hill,
and you had to walk a kilometre down the
hill to reach the beach. After my experience at Om beach, I was fairly sure
that it would be a task to get beach acco and the idea of walking down in full
gear, with saddlebags in a fruitless quest was daunting.
Luckily, there
were a couple of hotels on the ridge, so I tried the first one. There was a
ladakhi there, and I asked him about a room. He stared at me impassively for a
minute, and then said ‘Let me ask’. Being a ladakhi, he must be used to bikers,
and have a liking for them. He called up someone and asked ‘Room hai kya?’
The blessed
words came out of the speaker ‘Haan ek room hai....kitne aadmi hain?’
The ladakhi
looked enquiringly at me and I pointed to myself.
‘Ek aadmi. Kya
rate hai?’
‘Indian hai ya
foreigner?”
‘Indian hai.
Ek hi banda hai.’
‘Waise 1500
rupees ka hai....ek aadmi hai to 1250 bol do.’
Which exchange
left me wondering – if being an Indian has led to rates going up or down? You would probably say down, but I
have always found that firang backpackers are more careful with their money and
are pretty fierce bargainers. (they have only a finite sum of money after all,
and need to make it last for a year or more)
Not that it
mattered – by that time I would happily have paid 2-3 K for a room.
The guy showed
me the room and I was overjoyed – it was an excellent room – with attached bath
and western toilet, a small veranda and a hammock to boot, and with a nice view
of the beach. It was well worth 1250 bucks any day. And I could park my bike
next to the room, so safety would not be an issue.
I told you –
the patron saint of Idiots always helps out the honest traveller.
After a
welcome shower and change of clothes I went to the restaurant for dinner, and
made the unwelcome discovery that this was a vegetarian joint! Damn it.
‘Why is this
place vegetarian?’ I asked the Ladakhi ‘Is this some holy place or something?’
‘No no..’ he
replied proudly ‘Actually, all other places here serve non veg, so we are
trying to differentiate ourselves by being vegetarian’
Bah.
I was quite
tired that night, what with a long ride and that irritating hotel search in Om
beach, and started getting terrible cramps at night. Even the simple act of
getting out of the hammock made all kinds of weird muscles cramp up! OW OW OW.
That was painful. The thing about cramps is that they go away after some time, so
I just gritted it out until they went away and then limped off to bed. Tried to
think of possible causes – generally cramps are due to lack of electrolytes, so
tanked up on lime juice with salt and sugar the next day to keep cramps at bay.
Definitely didn’t want cramps while riding!
The next day.
I woke up early morning and trekked down to the beach for a morning stroll.
It was so
beautiful, that my heart sang!
Clear blue
skies, lovely beach and beautiful weather. What more could one ask for ? I
walked for an hour or so until the hotels finally opened, and had a nice chai
on the beach.
After chatting
with the locals and watching around, I made the discovery that Om beach was now
full of Indians and the firangs preferred to stay in Kudle beach. So by sheer
chance, god had pushed me to the far better place! The beach was a hot bed of
healthy activity in the morning – firangs jogging and jumping and doing yoga on
the beach, some guys practising martial arts, some people swimming, some
meditating – it was like being in a spa. I was deeply ashamed looking at the
fit people exercising, and especially seeing their expertise in yoga. Before I
became such a blimp, I was pretty good in Yoga, as my dad had taught me – but
these guys were at a different level. I was very impressed indeed.
The most
fascinating thing I saw – and would go as far as to say that the most
fascinating thing I have ever seen – was to see a young firang male practising
Indian classical dance on the beach. He had put on his headphones and was doing
a complete dance on the beach – I am utterly ignorant about dance - can’t
differentiate between Kuchipudi and Bharatnatyam – but I could see that his
Nritya, Natya and abhinaya were very good indeed. He was doing the dance, the
expressions, the gestures , the story telling – amazingly well. I can still see
him in my mind’s eye – slim short fellow wearing only a pair of shorts, longish
hair in a ponytail, French beard and very expressive face, listening to music
on his headphones, and practising Indian classical dance alone on the beach. He
was not looking for an audience, and also was not bothered as to who was
watching him – he was just lost in his dance. I sat there in a restaurant,
having a cup of tea, watching. I could have watched forever. It was wonderful.
I trekked back
up to my hotel – the little walk was amazing – it smelt of wet earth and green
and growing things, and that deep red soil of the konkan looks so cool – went
to my ladakhi friend for breakfast. I could have had breakfast on the beach,
but I was still so grateful for my room that I was trying to give him as much
business as possible. The ladakhi was also proud of me for being so brave and
ride here all the way from Mumbai, so we had a little love fest going.
After
breakfast, I was chilling in my hammock, when the manager of the hotel came by
with his register to take down my details, and we started chatting. He was also
happy to get an Indian to chat with – most of his business was with firangs –
and we had a long chat. He told me about the part of Karnataka we were in –
Uttara Kannada (North Karnataka) and the plethora of things to see here –
beaches, waterfalls, temples, caves, strange geological formations, etc – and
moaned about the fact that they were in Karnataka instead of Goa. If only our
Uttara Kannada had been part of Goa, meri life ban jaati, he said – but if the
Kannada partisan political part guys hear me say this, they will burn my hotel.
The law and the politics of Karnataka are terrible, he continued, corrupt, anti
tourism, anti business... if only we had been part of Goa....sigh.
He advised me
to visit the temple of Yana – it was a unique rock formation – a strange
mountain sticking out of the surrounding countryside. Scientists were still
wondering if this was the remnant of an ancient meteorite or an ancient volcano
or just some weird geological anomaly. It was about 20 -30 Km from Kudle, and I
thought that it might be a nice day trip, and it would be fun to go for a ride
without safety gear and feel a bit of
wind. It was a pleasant ride once I got off the highway – Yana is in a bit of a
sanctuary / reserved forest area, so it was green and pleasant, the winding
roads encouraged a bit of leaning and turning, which made the ride fun.
The motorable
road stopped about a kilometre or so before the temple/ rock outcrop, and you
had to trek up through a very pleasant jungle path. I wasn’t carrying any
sneakers, due to the simple fact that I hadn’t planned for a long trip at all –
I had packed for a 3 day ride – and thus was obliged to trek up in riding
boots. To my pleasant surprise, the boots were quite comfortable for walking
and had a decent grip as well. The walk was very pleasant, and though I huffed
and puffed slightly, it was not difficult. The path was almost deserted, with
very occasional people walking on the trail, and was green and wooded, and had
a lovely little stream running by the side. I saw some excellent birds –
including a very nice and long sighting of a crimson headed sunbird, which
stayed with me for some time and seemed to regard me as a curiosity.
The rock
formations were very impressive indeed, marred only by a rather ugly temple
wall and loads of day-trippers. I was surprised to see so many people, because
there had been no one on the path, but then I realised the government had
developed another motorable road right up to the temple and all the tourists
could just drive right up there. I sighed – the government means well – but a
motorable road brings a lot of garbage along with it. I met a couple of people
who were astonished that I had walked up the mountain – why didn’t you take the
new road? They asked. You would have saved yourself the walk. Well, I didn’t
know about it – but I am very happy I took the walk. ‘Where every prospect
pleases, and only man is vile’
The temple was
dedicated to Shiva, and was identified with the story of Bhasmasura – who
prayed to Shiva and asked for a boon that whoever he puts his hand on should be
reduced to ashes. Shiva granted the boon without thinking of the implications,
and then Bhasmasur wanted to try out the boon by putting his hand on Shiva and
burning him to ashes, because Shiva had said ‘anyone’ without excepting himself
or any other god. ‘ARRGHHHH – WTF’ Shiva screamed and ran off with Bhasmasur in
hot pursuit. Shiva ran here and there and finally hid himself in Yana rock and
asked Vishnu for help to resolve the situation. Vishnu must have tut-tutted
sadly at people who sign contracts without reading them carefully, and turned
himself into the smoking hot Mohini to distract the asura. One look at the
super hot babe made the asura so horny that it turned his brains into mush and
was duly tricked into putting his hand on to his own head and before he could
cry ‘OH NO OH SHIT CHUTIYA BANAYA’ he was burnt into ashes, and you could
imagine Vishnu dusting off his hands in satisfaction.
‘And that’s
the way it’s done, dude’ he said to the embarrassed and thankful Shiva ‘and be
careful next time before handing out these silly boons to dangerous looking
asuras’
The burnt and
blackened look of the rocks is supposed to be due to the burning of bhasmasura,
and there are two outcrops – one is called ‘Bhaireshwara shikhar’ – Shiva’s
hill, and the other is called ‘Mohini shikhara’. I noticed that there are a few
more of these outcrops, but I don’t know whether they were called anything.
I was not much
impressed with the Karnataka Governments upkeep of these places – No
information, no upkeep, no cleaning – garbage all over. All the stories I heard
about the efficiency of the KK government as being better than MH govt seem to
be exaggerated.
On the way
back, I saw a sign saying ‘Mirjan fort – 3 km’ and immediately turned off to
check it out. It was OK, but without any historical background, couldn’t get
any context to it. It was a muslim + portugese fort, but didn’t have much of a
view or anything. It was OK I suppose,
but not soul touching like the forts I had seen on the trip so far.
I got back to
Gokarna and decided to check out Om beach again – just to see if I had missed
something beautiful in the dark yesterday. Well, I hadn’t. The main appeal of
Om beach is its name, I think – and the fact that it had been remote and
unreachable. Now it is reachable and so the entire Sumo pilgrim crowd of
Gokarna ends up there, and the shape is more like ‘Oo’ rather than ‘Om’. Again,
the government would been better advised to keep Om beach remote and
inaccessible. I thanked god for forcing me onto Kudle beach, which was a much
nicer beach and had much more character.
I was famished
by the time I got back to the hotel – it was evening and I hadn’t had lunch –
and scarfed down an omelette sandwich, and then changed and went down to the
beach for the evening.
That evening
was the most pleasant evening that I have ever spent on a beach.
First I went
for a nice dip in the sea to wash off all the sweat and grime of the day and
the trek. After the dip, I saw with
pleasure that the firangs had made Kudle beach as happening a place as Arambol.
They started a drum circle – basically a bunch of guys sitting around in a
circle, playing drums. They had never met each other before, so it wasn’t as if
they were a trained group or something – they were just a group of like minded
guys coming together to play drums. They would start a hypnotic beat – da dum
da dum da da dum dum....and go on for hours with changes in beat every now and
then.
As the sun
went down, some one lit a little bonfire in the middle. The drummers went right
on playing in absolute silence apart from the drumming – no one spoke, chanted
or sung. They hardly even looked at each other, they were just drumming. The
twilight, the sea breeze, the beach, the firelight illuminating the cragged
features of the drummers – I felt as if I have been transported back in time to
some ancient tribal age, and these were the druids and priests doing some
strange ancient ritual to appease the gods. Some people got into the rhythm and
started dancing on the beach.
As the
drummers wound down, a bunch of Hare Krishna devotees started their evening satsang
next to them. They built a much bigger bonfire and sat around it and started
doing Hari Bhajan.
‘Hare
krishnaaa Hare Ramaaa, Ramaa Ramaaa....hare hareee’ It was so beautiful. That
sea side setting, that bonfire, that worshipful atmosphere....
It was weird –
here I was – a hindu Brahmin, sitting quietly outside the circle, dressed in
western clothes – shorts and t shirt, and around the fire were a bunch of
foreigners, dressed in traditional hindu attire – dhoti, kurta – some even
wearing a sacred thread, and sporting a shaven head and shendi. Who was the
real Brahmin here, I wondered. By karma, they were the ones.
As the drum
circle broke up, the drummers came to the Hare Krishna circle and started
drumming in tune to the chants, and every now and then the head pandit would
shake his cymbals and shout ‘Arriba’. I was quite startled at this and wondered
why he was saying that, but after some time I figured out that he was saying
‘Hari Bol’. Just to pep things up, every now and then they would should ‘Hari
bol’; ‘Jagatguru ki jai’; ‘Sriramchandraji ki jai’ and so on.
They even made
‘prasad’ and distributed it! I was touched.
There was a
small bunch of Indian tourists there who seemed amused and later, bemused; but
I was genuinely touched. A bunch of foreigners from a different faith,
background and culture come to your country and fall so much in love with your
culture – I think it is something to be proud of.
After the
satsang ran out of steam, I found another circle of firangs seated close by –
these were not into any faith, but just into music. There were a couple of
guitars, an ukulele, a ghatam (!) and even a didgeridoo (!!) and some people singing. As they seemed to be
from different countries speaking different tongues, they weren’t singing any specific
songs with words, but just creating music with sounds and ragas! It was
amazing!
It was a real
wrench to tear myself away from the beach, but it was time to have dinner and
hit the hay, as I had a long day tomorrow.
The next
morning, I again came down for a morning dip – I was hoping to see that dancer
again, but instead I saw a guy teaching another fellow some martial arts. The
learner was a real beginner, but the teacher was an awesome guy. Whenever he
got bored he would demonstrate some amazing moves – either a stretch, or some
complex move, or some killer excercise – It was amazing to watch! And of course
the normal complement of joggers, Yoga practitioners, Meditators...etc. A truly
energising morning.
I kitted up,
packed and left the hotel with a heavy heart. I had really enjoyed myself here.
But the trip was coming to an end, and I had to get to Mangalore by tonight as
I had a flight to catch tomorrow.
I carefully
checked my fuel guage – hmm – 2 sticks being shown in the fuel level – that
should be about 6-7 liters of fuel...even assuming 30 kmpl that would be about
200 km – Mangalore was about 200 km, so for safety’s sake, I put another 5
liters in the tank. No point in putting too much – the bike would have to be
emptied of fuel before being transported, so any excess fuel would be wasted.
The next stop
was Murudeshwar – about 60 km away.
Murudeshwar
was famous for a huge Shiva statue and temple built on the beach by a big
private contractor called R N Shetty. It is a big and ugly statue, and there is
a big and ugly concrete temple with a tall and ugly concrete gopuram. I looked
at it with a fascinated horror. These cement monstrosities are becoming too
common nowadays – there is a giant Shiva here, a giant Hanuman there, a giant
Ganapati there....ugh!
Shetty makes
good money out of this – he has got a set of hotels next to the temple, water
sports and boating, a RNS highway hotel, a RNS golf course and nature therapy
centre and god knows what else.
It must have
been a beautiful beach before Shetty saab built this temple – now it is a
religious tourism eyesore.
---------------------------------------------
‘Check out the
Mookambika temple in Kollur’, Bharathi advised me. ‘It is a bit off the route,
but there is nothing else on the route except Udipi Krishna temple, so you
might as well check it out.’
She who must
be obeyed had spoken, so I was off to Kollur.
I checked the
map, and saw that Kollur was off the main road, and away in the mountains. I
took the turn and saw that the place was in a sanctuary – the Mookambika
sanctuary. I felt quite nice seeing this – there is something really pleasant
about a temple being the reason for the forest and the birds and the beasts
being safe – it is as if the gods are the old arboreal gods doing their job as
protector of the forest.
And that is
what the word sanctuary means – A sacred place -a place of safety. (Sancta –
holy, Arium – a container for keeping something in.) In medieval England, the Church used to be a
place of sanctuary for hunted people – the Sheriff, bailiff or even the Kings
army could not enter a church to capture or arrest any person who has taken
refuge in the Church premises.
It was a
beautiful, green, curvy road with little or no traffic, and so I gunned the
bike to enjoy bending the bike on the turns. The bike also roared with
happiness as we covered the 30 or so km to Kollur. But as I reached Kollur, the
guard shook his head and told me that the temple was closed for the afternoon
and would open only at 3 PM. I checked my watch – Shit – it was only 2 PM.
I called
Bharathi to check whether the temple was worth waiting an hour for, and she
replied – No, the temple is not exactly a visual spectacle, not really worth an
hours wait, unless I wanted to kill time by having lunch or something. Well, I
had had a bite at Murdeshwar, so I wasn’t hungry and so I decided not to waste
time waiting, and to the total astonishment of the guard, I turned the bike
around and zoomed back.
Now, I
generally don’t have good luck with trying to avoid godly visits – the lord
generally catches me by the ear and pulls me back or gives a little spank. In
our Leh trip, I tried to avoid Tanglangla by taking a short cut from Tsomoriri,
and promptly took the wrong turn and ended up doubling back to Tanglanga.
Delzad decided not to climb up to see the temple of Osiyan in Rajasthan, and
ended up taking a toss and breaking his leg. Bharathi thought of bypassing the
Krishna temple of Udupi, and promptly got diarrhoea, and the only hotel they
could find was next to the temple. Bowing to the inevitable, she visited the
temple and immediately the shitting stopped.
So in a way, I
was not really surprised when the bike began making funny sounds and jerking
and came to a stop right in the middle of the jungle, in the middle of nowhere.
Shit, I said
and parked the bike. The road was totally deserted. Only monkeys were around.
I recognised
the problem immediately. Petrol was not reaching the engine. I checked the
petrol gauge, it was still showing 2 bars.
I had exactly this problem before, during my
Nepal ride. The fuel injector had broken that time, and so the bike came to a halt. Nothing could be done abou
it, but to change the injector. And that part is very hard to find, except in
an authorised Enfield service center. Where am I supposed to find an authorised
service center now ?
I checked my
phone. No signal. Wonderful.
I took off my
helmet, and waited for an empty truck to come, so that I could load my bike on
it. This would be the second time that my bike failed to complete a ride and
came home on a truck. Thinking black thoughts about Enfield quality, I waited.
No empty
truck.
Finally I
flagged down a biker and asked him if he knew any truck wala. Luckily he spoke
hindi, and tried to help, but he couldn’t find anybody. He asked me whether I
wanted a mechanic – I said no, I want a truck. Just then a Mahindra Pik Up came
and I flagged him down. He was also quite sympathetic, but he couldn’t take my
bike but said that he will be back with a friend and zoomed off.
I was alone
again. Some time passed with no action, so I flagged down another truck and
asked him if he could help. He was also sympathetic, but he was on a run and
couldn’t take my bike. But he offered me his phone to make a call – I called up
my friend Shiv – he was the founder of Touring Buddies, and we had done a few
rides together – and he had lately shifted to Mangalore, so he would know
people. Shiv was in a meeting or something, but he said that he would try to
figure something out.
After some
time, that Mahindra Pik-Up fellow came back, to my utter surprise, and waited
with me until his friend came in another Mahindra Pik-Up. Suddenly another
biker came up on a Bullet and stopped when he saw another Bulleteer in trouble.
All these guys were from the neighbourhood and knew each other, and all of them
stopped to help. The Bullet guy asked me if I wanted a mechanic – I said No. I know what the problem is and it needs a
change of part.
‘How are you
so sure you know what the problem is?’
‘I had the
same problem some time back, thats how’
He shrugged,
and got on the phone and told me that the nearest service was in Udupi – about
150 Km away.
I thought
about it – what was the point in taking the bike to a service center in Udupi?
I was anyway planning to courier the bike back to Bombay from Mangalore. Might
as well courier the bike to Mumbai from the closest point from here.
I told the
biker my logic, and he agreed. The nearest town with a courier service would be
Kundapur – maybe 30 to 40 Km, and he briefed the truck fellow accordingly.
A few more
guys had turned up by then, and they all helped to lift up and load the bike
into the truck – huffing and puffing with the weight of the 500 CC bike; and
smilingly refused any payment.
I cant
emphasize enough how friendly and helpful all the people I met today were. It
was simply heart warming.
I waved to all
of them and thanked them, and we left for Kundapur. The truckwala asked me if I
wanted a mechanic, and again I said – No, just take me to a courier.
When we hit
the highway, I got signal on my phone (Vodafone coverage sucks in Karnataka)
and I called Shiv again and briefed him on the situation.
He heard me
out and asked me ‘Are you sure about the injector issue?’
‘Yes I am
sure.’ I replied, smug in my knowledge of the engine.
‘Ok, I will
send you the number of my friend Abhijeet who lives nearby – he will help you
out’
That friend
immediately called up – he was a biker, and a part of Shiv’s local riding group
– and he immediately offered to come to Kundapur and help me talk to the
courier as I didn’t know the local language.
I was touched
that he would go to so much effort for a total stranger.
‘No
no...please don’t go to so much trouble.’ I said ‘The truck fellow knows hindi
and he will help me out’
‘No trouble –
I am close by’ Abhijeet replied ‘I will
be there shortly’.
I googled the
address of VRL couriers (being back in 3G range made me the king of info again.
I felt so empowered) and the truck made its way there.
The courier
guy thought it was an accident case, and was not too happy about taking a
damaged bike- he must have been thinking of implications of police etc – but we
explained to him that it was a breakdown case, not accident.
Ok, he said –
give me copies of documents. Registration, Driving licence and insurance.
So I dragged
the truck driver along, and we got an auto, and went off hunting for a cyber
cafe. We found one quite far away, and I rushed in to open my mail. I found the
mail and the attached PDF, but when I tried to open it, it asked for a
password. I cursed under my breath – why on earth do these idiots have this
obsession with passwords on PDFs? My Vodafone bill has a password! Who will
want to hack my bill? And anyway – it is not even a proper password - its generally first name+ last 4 digits of
phone number. Any fool can crack it.
I checked the
mail for password for this – it was first 4 letters of name + 0123. What
idiocy, I grumbled, and entered the password- keta0123 – it didn’t work! It
said wrong password!
What nonsense!
I tried again, and again and again – wrong password. I was perplexed. I tried
calling Tata AIG, no response. I tried calling Bharathi – the stupid telephone
service said ‘This number does not exist’! Vodafone fucks with your head every
now and then.
AAARRRRGHHHHHH,
I said inside my head, and tried my best to control myself so that I would not
tear this computer off the table and throw it out on the street.
I sighed and
read the mail again, going over it word by word, and found that this time, the
password was the LAST four letters of your name and 0123. I goggled at the mail
and entered ETAN0123 – still wrong password! I gritted my teeth and tried
OSHI0123 and it worked! The PDF opened!
Out of
curiosity, I opened last year’s insurance policy (2013 -14) and sure enough it was the FIRST 4 letters of
the name and 0123 in that one. In the 2014-15 policy, it was LAST 4 letters of
the name and 0123.
Anybody from
Tata AIG reading this – go fuck yourself. You are a bunch of Assholes.
I quickly took
the printout and the copies and we went back to VRL.
Abhijeet had
come by that time. We shook hands and I told him about the issue.
He looked at
me carefully. ‘This guy looks like a moron’ he must have been thinking. ‘Do you
mind if I check the bike?’ he asked ‘Maybe I can help’
‘Sure man.’ I
handed him the keys. ‘Please do. I suck at mechanicals – I am only this sure
because it happened to me earlier’
He got on the
truck and tested the bike. The bike started, but wouldn’t get any power –
couldn’t raise the engine.
‘Hmm. Petrol
is not reaching the engine...’ he checked the gauge ‘showing 2 bars...
hmm...want to take it to a mechanic?’
I explained
the issue to him and he agreed. No point in repairing it here if I was going to
ship it tomorrow anyway.
We called some
coolies, and took the bike down.
‘Please remove
all petrol from the engine.’ The courier guy said and I nodded. I had been
expecting it. I took out a pipe and a bottle and opened the fuel tank, and gave
it to a coolie to suck out the petrol.
The coolie
sucked and sucked, but the petrol wouldn’t come.
No worries, I
said – I know another way. I opened the fuel pipe to the engine and engaged the
fuel pump.
It went –
phoos phoos and only a teaspoon full of petrol came out, and it stopped.
‘That’s
weird...’ I said and suddenly stopped.
Me and
Abhijeet looked at each other.
THERE WAS NO
FUEL IN THE BIKE!! That’s why it had stopped! It was as simple as that, and I
had been farting around, talking nonsense about broken injectors and shit.
I went bright
red with embarrassment. Abhijeet must have been trying his best not to laugh
loudly and roll about on the ground.
‘I will go and
get some petrol’ he said and I quietly gave him the bottle.
I tightened
the fuel pipe, and looked again at the fuel gauge. It was still showing 2 bars.
The tank was completely dry, and that stupid gauge was still showing 7-8 litres
in the tank.
So I was right
about fuckall quality of Enfield parts. Only I had been mistaken about the
part. It was the fuel gauge which was screwed, and not the fuel injector.
Bah!
Abhijeet came
back with the petrol (he must have stopped to laugh about the fool who came all
the way from Mumbai and couldn’t tell when his tank was empty) and I quietly
filled up and went off from there.
I could just
hear Mookambika snickering at me. ‘No time to see me, eh?’
It was just
getting dark by the time I reached Udipi, and I decided that it was too late to
go to the temple and went ahead on the road to Mangalore.
But then
I thought, why do the same thing again?
Bharathi had got the runs by doing that only. Having Mookambika spank me was
quite enough. I turned the bike around and went to the temple.
I was
expecting them to force me to enter the temple bare bodied, so I was wondering
where I will park my jacket and assorted paraphernalia. Lets see, I said, and
went on – but to my pleasant surprise, they had changed the rules and were now
allowing covered bodies, and no one objected to me entering in full biker
regalia. No one even gave me a second look.
I entered and
immediately the aarti started – as if they were waiting for me to begin!
After the
aarti was over and my ears were still ringing from the din when I came out
after a long and fulfilling darshan, and it was completely dark by the time I
got on the highway to Mangalore.
The NH17 is
being expanded from 2 lanes to 4, as I said earlier, and it was most unpleasant
to ride on, and I was really happy when I finally rode into Mangalore.
What a relief!
I was
salivating to eat Mangalorean food, and I had already checked out Zomato and
decided on a restaurant to eat Ghee roast chicken in. I decided to stay in
Ginger hotel, as I was really tired after the days adventures and wanted a
predictable experience. I checked in, bathed and zoomed off to the hotel for a
well deserved Old Monk and Ghee Roast chicken and masala fish.
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