INCREDIBLE INDIA!

As I entered the taxi rank outside Calcutta airport, a child-like grin appeared on my face, stretching from ear to ear. Calcutta's distinct Yellow  Ambassador taxis weaved in and out of queuing traffic beeping their horns as if their life depended on it, people swarmed everywhere like bees around honey and the wonderful spices of Indian cooking from street vendors filled my nostrils. From the second I left the terminal building my senses went into overdrive, it could only be Incredible India!

Leaving Calcutta - The Famous Ambassador Taxi & Bridge over the Ganges in the background

There was just one other white guy on my flight from Bangkok, and he was also a Brit. Like many foreigners I had met, he was living the digital nomad dream, hopping from country to country with his laptop, living out of hotel rooms,  working as an editor for a magazine. We decided to share a cab, and after 20 minutes pratting around, my bicycle box was shoved into the backseat of a taxi and the door finally slammed shut, on what must have been the 100th attempt. With no working phone and no idea where to stay, I followed my new journalist friend and checked into the Sunflower Guest House in central Calcutta. An interesting well-spoken guy, but with perhaps the worst stutter I’ve ever seen, choking on certain words like a  machine gun,  before finally managing to spit them out. He was working on his own magazine that would feature and interview interesting travel bloggers. His price target, the danger traveller known as “ Lord Miles”, the self-claimed and very  controversial “Last tourist to leave Afghanistan”. Unfortunately, Lord Miles had recently returned to Afghanistan ...and been kidnapped by the Taliban. What young millennials will do for a few Instagram likes these days! Anyway, we decided to head out for some food. My new pal had a place in mind.  “Chinese!!!!?!.......Did you know this place was Chinese ''? I screamed, unable to hide my disgust as we arrived at the restaurant. “Well, I’m not going to eat Indian food every day am I!? He retorted. I wanted to say, “Yes I know, But it's your first f’ing day in India…and we are in West Bengal, probably the best Indian food in the whole f’ing country…..what the fuck is wrong with you!!??” Though nearing 41, and a little older and a  little wiser, I kept my mouth shut and instead chomped away on some pretty average Indian made Chinese food. Lovely! Thank God I was traveling by myself, I reflected. 

Calcutta was just as intoxicating as I remembered it. An incredible mix of old colonial British Buildings, fabulous INDIAN cuisine…you can tell that really rubbed me up the wrong way can’t you!.......and the fabulous hustle and bustle of Indian culture. I decided to spend a few days reacquainting myself with the capital of West Bengal. What better way to do that than take in a top-flight cricket game, I thought.  The Calcutta Knight Riders were due to play Hyperbad that evening, (14th April 2023) perfect!. Trying to behave like a grown-up and not make a meal of it (haha!), I decided to invite my korma-dodging journalist mate. We hailed an old Ambassador cab and directed the driver to Eden Gardens, the oldest cricket stadium in India (built 1864) and home of the Calcutta knight riders. Just as we were about to jump out of the cab, came the words, “I can’t make it, I need to go back to the guest house, I’m about to shit myself!” The lesson of the day, don’t eat Chinese food in India, I could have told you that! I hate cricket, couldn't tell you a single English player’s name, but this was something else. The fans erupted from their seats dancing and chanting in their purple replica attire as the ball was smacked for 6 every few minutes. I was converted.

After taking in a few of the sights, like the Victoria Memorial (a beautiful large marble building built in 1906 in tribute to Queen Victoria, empress of India from 1876 - 1901)  I decided to make the most of the tailoring skills offered in Calcutta and get the holes repaired in my sunbleached,  6 month old  green Rapha cycle jersey. The insanely strong Australian sun and daily abuse made it look more like 60 years old, with large holes in both shoulders. Not far from the guest house I spotted a small shop, in the window a man in his 60’s with a turban, beard, and several rings containing dazzling precious stones, worked the foot pedal of an antique Singer Sewing machine. Just the place, I thought! “This cheap Chinese fabric, very poor quality”, he remarked on showing him the rips in my jersey. I think he would have had a heart attack if I told him it retailed at 120 quid! A month's wages for many Indians. After the normal exchange of pleasantries, “What is your good name” and “Where are you from”, he explained he had a brother who was living in Essex, that would shortly be coming to England for the first time in 7 years, before going on to speak about the problems regarding racism in the UK. Completely deadpan, he explained. “The problem in England is all the racism, with all these (the N-word) and (the P-word)  and what not living there now”! Did he really just say that!?! I thought to myself in amazement! Wow. If I was drinking a mango lassi I think I would have choked and projected it all over his sewing machine! That was probably the most racist, anti-racist comment I have ever heard in my life! In hindsight,  I don’t think it was said with any bad intent, I’ll have to put it down to generational and cultural differences.

My final stop before hitting the road in Calcutta was to a fire station. Admittedly, I am not the world’s keenest Firefighter, though a visit to any overseas station is often amusing, and this did not disappoint. Calcutta's oldest and busiest station was a beautiful British-built building, with approximately 40 firefighters and around 12 fire engines, though most looked like they needed rescuing as opposed to being able to perform rescues. “Can I come in, I work for the London Fire Brigade?” I asked, playing my trump card early on. Before I knew it, I was eating watermelon and drinking Chai Tea with the station manager and the rest of the firefighters in the watchroom. The sub-officer was quick to point out he had 3 wives and even quicker to offer one to me. 3 wives on a firefighter's wage didn't sound like a particularly great idea, no wonder he was trying to palm one off to me! Next was a  comparison of wages. My firefighter's salary, the lowest rank in the London Fire  Brigade,  was significantly more than the Calcutta station managers, which was mildly embarrassing. “But rent in London is 150,000 rupees a month for a one bed flat!” I explained, putting things into perspective.  Many similarities still existed with the British Fire Service, such as standing to attention on parade in the morning, as well as the distinct lack of knowledge of any technical details, like the water-carrying capabilities of the various fire engines. When quizzed on the spot by the Station Manager in front of me, the firefighters looked puzzled at one another, then fired the question straight back to the station manager,  who was equally clueless! Serves him right for asking his junior firefighters questions to which he didn't know the answer! “Don’t ask me!” I was ready to say! 

Leaving Delhi

Lucknow - All to myself

Burning Ghat - Varanasi

Killing time with some impromptu cricket waiting for the train to pass

2nd interview of the day!

banging out the national anthem!

Cooling myself down in 40 degree heat with some well water over my head

Calcutta

Next, the Calcutta Fire Chief showed me the station's new toy, a firefighting robot, a remote-control  tank-like vehicle with caterpillar tracks and a branch mounted on-top to fight the most intense fires. The problem, was nobody knew how to open the trailer where it was housed! When they finally opened the door, it was pretty impressive and quite bizarre to have such state-of-the-art technology on an otherwise dilapidated station. Getting into the station was easy enough, the biggest problem was leaving. They all seemed to find the whole thing quite amusing and didn't want me to leave, offering more and more food, dinner, and cups of tea, so I suggested some photos outside. The final comedy act was when one of the vehicles reversed into the firefighter taking the photo, knocking him over! It was an amusing couple of hours with some very jovial and fun characters. Though as always, and with even more wonderful memories of Calcutta, it was time to hit the road. 

As I left Calcutta, pedaling past its wonderful grand buildings, before cycling over the huge Iron Suspension bridge that spanned the Ganges River, it seemed very fitting that I was beginning my Indian adventure on the 1st day of the West Bengal calendar year. Shortly before leaving the city limit, I was joined by a group of men on bicycles participating in a local cycling event, a rarity in India. It seemed a great way to start the India leg, burying the disappointment of having to board a plane a few days ago. China would have no doubt been incredible, but also somewhat hostile with constant scrutiny, checks, and being monitored and followed by paranoid government authorities and police. I was certainly getting followed in India, but for very different reasons! This was a land of huge curiosity, of complete lawlessness and disregard for rules most countries take for granted, and where the word “personal space” does not exist. I could ride my bicycle, or a car for that matter, on the wrong side of a highway, through multiple red lights, or even the wrong way around a roundabout in direct sight of a police officer, and nobody would bat an eye. Good driving was all about making the maximum progress possible, and if that meant blindly overtaking on the outside of a bend forcing oncoming traffic off the road, then so be it!

My route from Calcutta took me in a northwesterly direction towards Delhi, taking the small roads as much as possible, literally the opposite path (minus Nepal) that I had taken 5 years ago. Though even a country road in India, no matter how remote and far away from big cities, would only bring peace for so long. India had just surpassed China that week to become the world's largest population, a staggering 1.4 Billion people, and the more remote the road, the greater the madness when people saw me, which was generally about every 60 seconds. My popularity as a white man badly dressed in lycra on an old blue bicycle reached titanic proportions. I was about to say, “As if I was the Dykla Lama!” Though with the recent news regarding the bizarre behavior of his holiness, asking a young child to kiss him then suck his tongue?!?........I won’t make that comparison! 

I was barely a few hundred miles out of Calcutta one day when I stopped for a bit of lunch at a very basic roadside cafe on the edge of a small West Bengal town.  Like the Pied Piper, as I entered the cafe, the rest of the town followed. I was instantly a local celebrity, and worryingly,  expected to perform like one. After 100 eyes observing my every chew, I had barely finished my lunch when an overweight jolly Looking fella appeared from the next-door shop with a microphone and speaker system, which was promptly thrusted into my face! “Sing a song!!..........sing a song”, a request echoed by the rest of the crowd that had packed around the cafe, like a mini concert hall. Shakira!”, he requested.  I can’t sing for shit, nevermind Shakira, I thought to myself. In situations like this, life has told me there's no point pussying around and shying away, it only makes it all so much worse! So, I confidently grabbed the microphone and belted out England’s National anthem. It was absolutely awful, the queen must have been turning in her grave. I thought the group of onlookers would have seen the comical side, but instead all stared at me deadpan, like I had performed some ancient ritual! Now, it was the turn of my mate with the microphone, and I would have no mercy! He in turn performed the national anthem of India, as I shouted in his ear, “Come on, LOUDER!” To be fair, he did a much better job than me. I decided to join In too,  repeating each word moments after. The crowd loved it. Though I wasn’t done yet. The final request was to make a speech before I was allowed to leave…. “Thank you to the wonderful people of West Bengal…………”!

Back on the bike the next day, I was hoping for more progress and less singing. After getting in some good morning miles I stopped at a small stall to grab a chocolate bar, when a man a few years older than myself invited me to his nearby house for a cup of chai tea. Why not? I thought to myself, and off we went. Like the previous day, a small crowd, as well as the man’s family,  gathered around. What was more concerning, was that the man who had offered me the tea started donning a shirt and, moments later reappeared from his house with a microphone!!! You're joking! I thought to myself, he’s a bloody journalist. Like Deja Vu, The microphone was once again pushed into my face, though this time to make a speech about my trip for the local news station. Everyday cycling in India is an adventure, never knowing what craziness will be around the next corner. Not long after leaving my interview, perhaps 20 miles down the road, I was held up once more. This time at a level crossing behind an old barrier,  waiting for the train to pass. Alongside me in the queue of traffic was a group of mischievous young lads, one had a cricket bat in his hand. A perfect chance for a bit of impromptu cricket I thought, and started bowling whatever I could find on the floor at the young batsman, from coconut shells to plastic bottles, all of which he skillfully batted away, before handing the bat to the next boy.

The craziness, constant attention, and curious nature of India are one of the many things that make India Incredible, particularly on a bicycle. Though, It can also test your patience and beat you making it a  very challenging place to cycle. Every day without fail, I would have a queue of cars and motorbikes behind me, each taking it in terms to have a chat, the familiar pattern was:

• What is your good name?

• Where are you going?

• Can I have a selfie please?

The constant attention could do wonders for your ego, but be careful what you wish for! Motorbikes would trail behind me for up to an hour, so close they could smell my farts, then overtake and slow down to a  crawl in front of me, adjusting their mirror for a good view. The process would repeat itself every time I attempted to re-overtake. In an attempt to escape, I would stop for a piss, though even that often didn’t do the trick, as the motorcyclists would stop alongside me,  fixating their gaze as I pulled out my pecker to take a leak! “Trust me mate, this penis isn't  going to get any Guinness World Records, there's not much to look at!” …….. I thought to myself! Grown men would literally beg me to stop for a selfie, and cars would pull alongside me, forcing me into the middle of the highway to begin endless chats. The fact I had a queue of beeping cars behind me and was heading straight towards an oncoming lorry didn’t seem to be a consideration! I simply wasn’t getting anywhere, even cycling in the dark of night did not hide my western white skin and the serial selfie sessions would continue. 

Though worst of all, was the beeping. Indians LOVE beeping and will beep for anything and everything. They will beep when they are behind me, when they overtake me, after they’ve overtaken me, when there is traffic, when there is no traffic…Christ……. they even beep when they are travelling in the opposite  direction to me on the opposite side of a 3 lane highway………that’s separated by a concrete central reservation! I get it, you're over there ... .but you're nowhere bloody near me, you don’t have to keep beeping at me! And my ultimate favourite, the lorries that would wait till they’re right alongside before giving a good long blast of an eardrum bursting fog-horn! Cheers mate, just what I needed! You may think I’m recounting one particular incident, but oh no! This is India, and this would happen all day, every day! If this is what it's like to be famous, I’d rather be homeless! However,  There was one “get out of jail” card, which I would use sparingly, normally early in the mornings or late in the evening when my brain was feeling a little tender, unable to face the chaos. In response to question 2, where I am going….I would say with full enthusiasm, “PAKISTAN!” This one-word reply was often followed with the response, “GOODBYE SIR!!” as the motorcycle accelerated off into the distance.

I would like to say that I remained undeterred, as cool as a cucumber, as I  let the sound of the horns pass seamlessly into one perforated eardrum and out of the other.  Though sometimes, after being hassled, beeped at, driven off the road, baked by the 40-degree heat and having ingested enough toxic diesel fumes to kill the Amazon rainforest…. I quite simply lost my shit! A couple of my  highlights, that are amusing, though I’m not particularly proud of, include: 

1. Throwing the remains of my Watermelon at a Tuk Tuk driver after beeping me for the 100th time (to the great amusement of 2 young lads standing next to me, the look on their faces was priceless)

2. Dropping my bike in the middle of a busy junction and screaming …”SHUT THE FUCK UPPP!!” at the top of my lungs to a lorry driver who kept blasting his horn a meter behind me in a mile-long stationary traffic jam…… to the great amusement of hundreds of bystanders.  That horn was so loud it still vibrates through my body to this day!

3. Though my biggest strop was not on the main road, but as I pulled off it for a bit of late morning breakfast, hoping for some peace and quiet. Spotting one of the cleaner-looking canteens by the roadside, I pulled off towards a neatly decorated small concrete restaurant, set back from the main road by a large dusty piece of land. The owner was a young lad by the name of Ayush Raj Kasyap. With a number one on the sides and hair brushed to stand erect  5 inches high on top, complete with tramlines both on the side of his head and eyebrows,  his haircut was as outrageous as his personality. This was a young man that could truly talk for India. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity for my food to appear, I had barely started to chew my first piece of roti when the real performance started…..

“My name is Ayush Raj Kasyap, here I am with Simon, Simon is eating……BLAH BLAH BLAH”..…with his signature finish ….”Make sure you check out my YouTube channel @Ayush Raj………!!!!”

The phone would swing around dramatically, first in selfie fashion, as he spoke with an enormous fake cheesy grin spread, stretched from ear to ear. Next, the camera turned to my food, and then me as he fired a dozen loaded promotional questions about  how great his restaurant  was.  I attempted to be patient and smile, though in hindsight, I should have tipped the plate of food on his head there and then.  After the 3rd or 4th video, I politely said, “Look mate, I’m a 40 year old bloke, I ‘m not interested in your social media, I’ve been very polite and entertained your 4 videos, but now you need to put your phone down!” 

“Ok Sir”, replied the YouTube wannabe….”Thanks God for that!”.......I thought…….wrongly, less than a minute later he started up again…….. “My name is Ayush BLAH BLAH check out my BLAH BLAH BLAH”......The videos even continued as I left his little restaurant to get on my bicycle. Which, as you’ve probably guessed, was the moment I finally lost it. Grabbing the phone from his hand I shouted, 

“Look, there is more to life than social media, you need to stop your stupid f’ing videos or I’m going to throw your F’ing Phone into that F'ing field!!!!!!” 

To top things off ... .It was the most expensive lunch I’d been charged so far in India! 

Lessons learned??!! I have no idea! My reaction was probably over the top, and I completely understand how a Westerner can (wrongly) give a lot of Kudos to an Indian's social media profile. I get that, and I  do stop as frequently as I can at the request of “Selfie!?”.Though I can’t help but think how crazy the world has gone with our obsession with social media. I would say, “F’ing Millennials”, though apparently being born in 1982, I am one! I am very glad at least, to have been born into a world without smartphones and to have spent my youth in a world where the word “SELFIE” didn’t exist!

I hope I am not painting an unfair picture of India here. Incredible India is quite possibly my favourite country in the world. A land where you will see Ornate temples, people washing clothes in rivers, monkeys swinging from telephone lines and 8000 metre snow-capped peaks one day…………and cows, camels and elephants walking down the street the next.  Its history and landscapes are intoxicating and its people caring, warm and friendly. They put us Brits to shame. I was in the wrong for occasionally losing my temper and vowed never to do so again. 

My journey through India took me across the flat grasslands of West Bengal, into the dry mountainous region near Ranchi and up towards the  Buddhist temples of Gaya (state of Bihar). It was here where I met my first Western tourists since leaving Calcutta. A couple of blokes from America, one, who’s name I forget, with a shaved head probably late 40’s, was searching for enlightenment,  as he endlessly travelled the world spending a huge inheritance.  The other, Jake, late 20’s, was, very randomly,  Courtney Love’s nephew. As I left the guest house the next morning, my enlightened friend was performing some sort of ritual on a couple of Indian lads, where they would walk towards him like zombie’s, before being pushed away in the chest and stumbling backward for metres in an exaggerated fashion.  Bizarre…I’m not sure what spiritual awareness men from the land of yoga can gain from the land of the hot dog, but I may be wrong, I often am!

Next up, was Varanasi, India’s oldest city and the spiritual capital of India. Hindus believe that if they are cremated in Varanasi and their ashes are released into the sacred and purifying water of the Ganges, their reincarnation cycle will end and they will reach Nirvana. The only bit I struggle with is the word, “purifying water”. The brown poo-colored waters make the English Channel look like Mauritius, and that's being kind. It has human remains, litter, cow shit, raw sewage, you name it, it's there…Yet the shores of the mighty Ganges are lined with men in wide fronts going for a dip or scrubbing their bodies with a  bar of soap. Jokes aside. Varanasi is a wonderful place, and strangely to Westerners, a place of joy to celebrate life. To die in Varanasi is a real honor. Bodies of the deceased are wrapped in cloth topped with flowers and carried on a bamboo stretcher to be washed in the river before being set alight with wood paid for by the family at the Manikarnika Burning Ghat. Bones are left if the family cannot afford enough wood. Young children, those with leprosy and pregnant women are considered pure and the corpses are tied to large rocks and dropped into the middle of the river. Pretty full on to say the least! 

Further downriver lies another burning ghat, this one much smaller, used by India’s poor. It was at this site that the reality of Varanasi really hit home. A child, perhaps 6 or 7 years of age is washed in the river by 2 men, his body is limp, leaning back against a boat his mother screams into the sky. It is a horrific site, I wonder what tragically took the life of someone so young. The men then tie large rocks to the boy's back and he is loaded onto a small rowing boat. When the boat reaches the middle of the river, he is unceremoniously tossed over the side of the boat, and sinks to the bottom of the Ganges. Whatever religion says to us about reincarnation, the only guarantee is what we have when we are alive, and I was glad to be living my life to the full.

From Varanasi, I reached wonderful Lucknow, from Lucknow Agra, home of the beautiful Taj Mahal, and from Agra, Delhi. The nation’s capital and starting place of my first sabbatical. It was to be a nice moment….. Though it wasn't quite as smooth as that! As the traffic hit crazy levels entering India’s capital I thought I’d do my normal trick of engaging in a bit of motorway cycling. The sight of a freshly laid traffic-free express way too much to resist! As I entered the 7-lane superhighway, a group of construction workers shouted out to me as they ran in my direction, I knew exactly what they were going to say, so pumped my pedals and kept on going! Before I knew it, I was in complete bliss. 7 lanes of tarmac without a car in sight. I made a point of weaving across all 7 of them. It was ironic that after all the mad traffic and never-ending horns, the closest thing to heaven I’d experienced in India was a motorway! Though all good things come to an end, which I realised pretty quickly as I approached the toll booth and several angry-looking patrolmen. I was literally thrown off the highway and forced to climb over the metal railing, down the steep bank and continue in the fields below! The motorway above seemed to get higher and higher into the air on large concrete pillars. There was good reason for that, after pushing my bike through muddy fields hoping to jump back on the highway further down,  I eventually reached a dirty river…..after which was a high-speed train line! Back I went….up the steep bank……this time just far enough out of sight of the toll booth….and finally made my way to Delhi!

Something which had been plaguing my mind since landing in Calcutta was the realisation that despite taking the India route as opposed to the China one…..I still needed a Chinese Visa!!! Briefly looking at a world map (about as far as planning goes for me) I naively assumed I could pass from Pakistan to “The stans” (central Asia). If you take a closer look, you will see that north of Pakistan is the Wakhan Corridor, a thin stretch of land owned by Afghanistan. Apparently, it was possible to pass through, though since the Taliban took over in 2021, it's a No-go. Heading west of Pakistan is highly dangerous and would take me to Iran. A flatter and quicker route, though with a British passport, Iran is not an option without an organised tour. The only way out is to head in a northeast direction from Pakistan to Lahore and then Islamabad and into the Himalayas and over the border to remote western China, before chucking a left into either Kazakhstan or Kyrgyzstan. No china visa, no way home. I had attempted to get a visa from the Chinese visa centre in Calcutta, going there in person on my bicycle, though I was told categorically “Only Indians could apply”. I then tried to call and email the centre in Delhi, and was given the same response. What a shit show….the thought of flying home again, spending a 1000 quid, to hopefully get a visa for 5 days cycling in China was killing me. 

Though it seemed luck was on my side. Literally the day I reached Delhi city limits I saw a message pop up on my phone. It was from an old school friend I literally haven't seen in 10 years, something to the effect of, 

“Hi Simon, I saw you were cycling in India, me and Andy work at the British High commission in Delhi, do you want to come and stay with us?”

Before I knew it, I was escorted into a high-security compound and into a brick build house where we sat down eating lasagne, having a cider and then a cup of tea and talking about Hinckley…..or “Stinckley…a shit midlands town I’m happy to call home! A homely British home, on a secure quiet, and leafy compound, surrounded by the chaos of Delhi ……..Surreal! Though here comes the even better bit, Andy (Helen’s partner) is a big cheese at the High Commision, and wrote me the perfect letter, explaining why I was unable to apply for my visa in the UK, with an official blue ink stamp from the British High Commission. It doesn't get any better than that, and it did the trick! A one-month single entry visa was GRANTED! Get IN! Well, it wasn't quite that easy, I had to book flights from Hong Kong into Beijing (NEVER tell them you want to cycle into China is the hard fast rule) that I would never use, make hotel reservations, send bank statements and make-up a BS daily itinerary etc etc etc, but that was all a million times better than flying back to England!

A lot happened from Delhi to the Pakistani border, though I’m going to make it brief. It's nice to write a blog, but I’d rather be cycling ... .and time has escaped me! Anyway, from Delhi I headed north to Rishikesh, a small hippy town known as the gateway to the Himalayas and the Yoga capital of the world. Beats Margate I guess. Apparently, The Beatles planned a 3-month stay at an Ashram there, though it was cut short for sexual misconduct. No sexual misconduct for me, but a brilliant chance to raft the Ganges and laugh at Western men wearing skirts and other Buddha-improvised pieces. A brilliant place, though one where I heard Western yogis use words like “cultural misappropriation” a little too frequently! In a place like this, at the very minimum, you need a Tie-Dye shirt and a world map tattoo on your neck.

From Rishikesh, I climbed high to Shimla, a beautiful former British hill station perched on a mountaintop with delightful old British architecture and Asia’s only outdoor Ice rink. Jesus us Brits got around the world I thought to myself. From Shimla I went to Dharamshala, home of the almighty pedophile himself, the young boy tounge sucking Dalai Lama. To be fair, he picked a great place to live in exile, the scenery was outrageous.  I ran up the nearby mountain past the pine tree line to the snowline at around 3500 meters in my lycra, leaned back, and fell into the snow, thinking how grateful I was not to be in an office.

Dharamshala

Shimla

Old British Architecture - Shimla

India Tea house - old world charm - Shimla

The Taj Mahal

Beautiful Jaipur - the pink city

Jaisalmer

Catching up with my blog hanging out of a train

Jodhpur - the Blue City

Leh, Ladakh

Royal Enfield up the Khardung sass - at 5359 metres - 17982 feet, claims to be the highest Road in the world

From Dharamshala, I dumped the bicycle in a dingy room beneath my hostel and flew back to meet Daz in Delhi for a wonderful couple of weeks off the bullet. We shot around the country visiting everywhere from baking hot Rajasthan to freezing cold Ladakh near China - I’ll write that section up another time as yet again I'm miles behind with this blog. ....I'm 2/3 the way through Pakistan and haven't finished this India blog yet....but anyway, we had a blast! After saying bye to Daz I returned to my old faithful blue bullet. Despite the broken lock and missing speedo, thankfully it was still there. 2 weeks later the sun had also disappeared and the snowcapped mountains were obscured by thick clouds. It was time to leave India, and so, in the pissing rain, I descended the Himalayas into the Punjab and towards my final stop, Amritsar, a beautiful town on the Pakistan border.

Every day at 6PM, since 1959, a flag-lowering ceremony takes place on the borderline, about 20km from Amritsar. Though not any flag lowering ceremony, this is the Carlsberg of flag lowering and was not to be missed. I grabbed a tuk-tuk to the event with an Indian couple and a German guy from the hostel. The driver, who was quite probably the hostel owner too, was quite possibly the cheekiest Indian man I've ever met. Amongst other things, He talked about the amount of drugs coming over the border at night and how he would be the best smuggler because he knew all the guards at the checkpoints and was never checked. So....when we got to the police checkpoint, I shouted, "He's got drugs, under the tuk-tuk, and in his pants....inside his arse, you need to search him!" It went down a treat. The flag-lowering ceremony was insane, soldiers marching up and down like the ministry of silly walks, leaning back on their heels before raising their legs into the air in almost full splits fashion in front of a huge stand of over 1000's of cheering Indians, flags waving and faces painted. The same spectacle simultaneously happening on the Pakistan side behind a huge steel gate, though the stadium a fraction of the size. Finally, the gate was opened, a brief handshake between the 2 sides, the gates closed and respective flags lowered. There couldn't have been a more fitting way to side Goodbye to Incredible India.

Flag Lowering ceremony - India - Pak Border

Amritsar - last stop before Pakistan