We hauled our heavy limbs out of bed and kissed goodbye to any idea we’d had about getting an early start. By the time we’d downed breakfast, two fried eggs and slurped on the sweet black coffee and hauled our bags down to the bikes it was 10:00am. We loaded the bikes with a group of 30 or so onlooker’s watching our every move. It struck me how at ease we have become with this kind of group inspection.

It had taken us a good 30 minutes to find the right mixture of alleys and roads to get us to the Great Trunk Road that would lead us to the border. Lahore hadn’t disappointed with regard to its notorious reputation concerning its traffic. From the second we’d left the hotel we’d been swarmed by thousands of riders, each on the 125 Honda’s, Suzuki’s or Jeylings. All the way to the border we’d battled with swerving cars, erratic rickshaws and the mandatory carts being pulled by the exhausted donkeys.

At the border we were halted by the first military check point and our last minutes in Pakistan were spent in the same way as the first minutes when we’d entered. Accepting a kind offer of a chat and chai, we were soon off the bikes and recanting a few of our experiences in Pakistan between sips of hot sweet milky tea. Our new khaki dressed friends each casually sporting a new fully automatic rifle slung over their backs.

We literally breezed out of Pakistan in such a relaxed atmosphere that we actually enjoyed the process. The area between the borders is where the opening and closing ceremony takes place. In-between the decorated gates of Pakistan and the archway of India is an area full of seats for the thousands of spectators that come everyday to witness this rather bizarre ceremony. So in keeping with this we rather ceremoniously crossed the newly painted border line and under the decorated arch together, riding side by side into country 68 – India! The first sign that caught our attention was the HUGE one stating “Welcome to India, the largest democracy in the World!”

We both felt a real pang of excitement about entering India; it’s been such a long time coming and has always been a real landmark in terms of our journey and its scale. At least in our heads!

On the Indian side the relaxed atmosphere continued as we had our carnets stamped out and our passports marked. At each turn we were approached by polite English and offers of more tea. We’d toyed with the idea of staying at the border but the sight of several thousand people milling around at the border waiting to see the military show * at 4:30pm had changed our minds as this would have meant leaving our bikes at one of the many stalls unguarded. We would also have to have left our hip bags, helmets and worldly possessions. Not a good idea we thought! We’ll come back to the border to see the spectacle in the next few days.

Lisa writes:

*Attari/Wagah border – every late afternoon just before sunset members of the Indian and Pakistani military meet at the border to engage in a 30 min display of – what the LP states of – pure theatre. The flag –lowering closing of the border ceremony is a fusion of orderly colonial-style pomp and something else resembling Monty Pythons Ministry of Silly Walks! We shall hopefully get some great photos and video!

With a careful gaze on the GPS we headed into Amritsar amongst the crazed traffic, dirt, roadside rubbish and massive road works. We eventually found the ‘Tourist Guest House’. Transversing the wet rubbly roads on big bikes with rickshaws, small motorbikes and donkeys cutting you up on every pothole made the small road work sections hazardous, requiring much more concentration than any off-road track in Mongolia! But still very entertaining and, in a very perverse way…fun! The Tourist Guest House was in the middle of workman’s rubble as nearby they are building a huge overpass. The guest house is almost underneath it. However the greeting we had was really friendly with all the staff excited about the arrival of our bikes.

An hour later and we hopped onto a cycle powered rickshaw to visit the Golden Temple. The rickshaw ride had us laughing, rather hysterically I think, at all the near misses and staring almost open-mouthed at the throng of people, colours, noises, calamity, of the local stalls and street vendors. After a bone-jarring ride avoiding (or really not avoiding) the many potholes, we arrived at the Golden temple where we joined 20,000 Sikh worshipers and handed over our socks and shoes and then headed into this legendary place of worship and Sikhism’s holiest shrine. I hadn’t realized but everyone is welcome at a Sikh temple. It was rather a nice change to be able to walk in alongside Simon without having to use a separate entrance and feeling a bit of a leper cos I am a woman.

After depositing our shoes and making sure our heads were covered, men as well… (I wrapped Simon’s head – very expertly I think! – in his silk scarf, turban-style) we walked along the cold and very dirty carpet into the foot-bath and then entered the temple. Amazing, spectacular, overwhelming are some of the words that come to mind. All of our senses had already been hit by the crazy rickshaw ride through town and then we were hit with the lights, gold, shimmering water, people, fireworks! What an introduction to India. All that we had hoped for and more and all on the first night. The marble walkway (Parkarma) that surrounds the pool of holy water – (Amrit Sarovar, Pool of Nectar) had thousands of lit candles and pilgrims sitting cross-legged on the very cold marble floor. The Golden dome of the temple (Hari Mandir Sahib) is said to be glided with 750 kg of pure gold and is meant to represent an inverted lotus flower – a Sikh symbol of a pure life. Even more mesmerizing there is a constant chant going on from the Priests which was broadcast via speakers – we noted the loud speakers were Bose! The priests inside the temple keep up a continuous chant reading from the Sikh holy book. Most of the time the people seen working around the temple are all volunteers; they wash the floors, help in the kitchens tend the community dining room (guru-ka-langar) etc. the size of the buildings that house the kitchens are massive – but I suppose they have to be as they prepare veggie food for around 60,000 to 80,000 pilgrims a day! Everyone is welcome…however, as it was a holy day we decided that it wasn’t appropriate – plus it was jam packed!

Tonight was the night they were celebrating the birth of the 10th Guru hence the huge firework display that went on and on! The fireworks were right over our heads and we both got hit by flying debris and one point! Simon on the head and me when I was moving under cover stood on some of the flying burning remnants…owww.

During our time In the Temple we had been enthusiastically greeted by groups of young men who clamoured around Simon and young children, mainly little girls, who had approached me to give me sweets. It felt as though we had become the main attraction as people were clamoring around us all with their cameras, trying to stand by us whilst their friends/family took photos! ? By the time we got to leave my feet were sore and frozen from the hours spent walking the very cold marble floor…and it was a relief to get my shoes back….Simons feet are obviously made of tougher stuff!

You can check out the photos for a better idea of what we experienced as I know words cannot do it justice. Getting back into the rickshaw we asked the guy to take somewhere for food. Taking us to a local, but regionally well-known vegetarian restaurant we ate dhal, aloo, channa, paratha and phulka - $4 saw us both with more food than we could actually eat. The final crazy ride after eating left us shivering (it was freezing and a cold fog had descended) and so when we arrived at the guesthouse, after an invitation by the night watchman to enjoy his fire we sat for a little while warming ourselves before going to our room.

And so now, with a rum and coke in my hand, the first for months, I’m finishing up our day and looking forward to what the next few months will bring us. It’ll be nice to spend more than just 30 days in a country.

We walked around the local area just trying to get the feel of this rather chaotic city. After doing a little research prior to arriving I understood that we needed insurance to be able to ride in India. If its necessary in a country we normally try to get it at the border – in fact some countries will insist you purchase it (however worthless it really is) before they will even ‘stamp’ you into their country. In India this wasn’t the case. After asking the guest house owner for his advice we tried one office in town which we found closed. No one knew of anywhere else for us as foreigners to purchase insurance and so we thought that we would possibly try later. (In truth we had both made the decision that any insurance we would buy wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on and that being the foreigner we would always be the one at fault and made to pay out if involved in an accident- just the way that it goes!) It wasn’t something we were going to worry about!

Now as any of you who know us we don’t really like very early mornings…however at 5am we were up and back on a rickshaw to see the sun rise over the Golden Temple. It really is impossible to describe just how magnificent this building is and despite it being absolutely freezing we stayed on for 4 hours trying to get that one photo. We think we did it. Not sure what you think! After most of the morning there and walking on the freezing marble floor in bare feet I was unable to warm up for the rest of the day. In fact over the next 24 hours I was just unable to get warm. I’m not sure if I had picked up any kind of chill from when Simon had his cold – but after continually shivering for a day I took to my bed and just stayed in it trying to keep warm. The bitter cold had surprised us both. We had just sent all our winter kit back as we had thought…we are going to India!! Its not cold there is it!?

And so…after our early am start the rest of the 9th of January saw me spend the day in bed feeling guilty as Simon serviced both bikes. Engine oil for the 650 and a change of gear box oil and final drive oil for the 1150.

The two soft poached eggs were as good this morning as they’d been for the last 4 mornings. A little taste of home, made all the better by the strong milky sweet coffee. We wished Charley (a young cyclist we met at the guest house) a safe journey as we watched him peddle his heavily laden cycle down the pot holed mud washed track. It just looks so much like hard work…impressive but mad ?

With our own machines set for the off…we did. At the first small junction we made a right and joined the insane early morning traffic. Cycles, rickshaws, cars, trucks, busses and us all bumper to bumper, fighting for our space as if our lives depended on it…because they do. Had this been our first taste of 3rd world traffic we’d have freaked. Even with our thousands of miles of experience it certainly stressed the nerves. It’s literally a case of ‘he who dares wins’. Every opportunity that could have played out for someone to do something totally ludicrous, dangerous and bizarre, was. The absurdity of driving standards here are really unlike most other places we’ve ridden. The honking of loud horns is continuous, a constant fanfare blaring in our ears.

With a careful eye on the GPS we quickly found the route 15 and were soon heading south towards Tarn Taran and then onto Talwandi Bhai. It was the start of what was to be a mentally exhausting day. Dozens of small towns came and went, each one playing out just like the last. Everything and anything simply pushes it way onto the road whether there’s traffic already occupying the road space or not. The rules seem simple enough, if you’re in front of ‘something’ then you have right of way, in as much as it’s down to the traffic behind to move so as to avoid any potential accidents. It was mentally tough; we simply couldn’t drop our guard for a second.

However the only ones who don’t adhere to ANY rules are the cows. Cattle roam across the road without a care in the world….and they seem to realize this as they have a very arrogant sway and swish as they chew their crud, meander and shit all at the same time. To the locals a cow is a deity; all I see is lunch…funny old world.

By mid afternoon Simon had hit (well…glanced) two motorbikes and bumped at least one car that I know of. Parked up by the side of the road we poured over our maps trying to get some direction. As two large battered coaches came alongside both were so focused on staring at us that they simply collided! No, I don’t mean a gentle knock; I mean real bang, enough to bend metal. Simon laughed out loud as all I could do was to shake my head in amazement. Serves them bloody right. I know that sounds callous but even after only a week in India I have to say that I have absolutely no respect whatsoever for the standards of driving here. In fact the mere use of the word ‘standard’ in the same sentence or breath as the word ‘India’ is absurd in the extreme. We’d been warned over the years about the road conditions here in India, but still the most fervent of descriptions pales by comparison to the actual experience.

All afternoon we battled to stay on the road as the oncoming buses and trucks overtook whether we were occupying the lane space or not. They’d flash their lights and honk their dam horns like that’s going to make some kind of difference. The same was true of the buses that came from behind us. We’d be behind slower moving traffic, looking for an overtaking opportunity only to have a bus up our ass, lights being flashed and the driver yanking the horn like a second penis. We’d have nowhere to go, nowhere to pull off. What the hell’s all the point of the flashing and honking? In truth nothing, it’s just habitual. It’s just how things are driven here. No rhyme, no reason, no logic. It’s part of the madness, the adventure, the fun (?) Arriving somewhere at the end of the day…alive, is the reward!

We finally called it a day in the small town of Suratgarh. We’d been riding in the dark for 30-minutes and our nerves were running ragged. Between the air pollution, evening mist, darkness and glare of headlights all on full beam, visibility was a joke. If we didn’t stop soon we were going to end up in a ditch.

We’ve made our home for the night at the cozily named ‘Tourist Home Stay’. A small dark dingy room for 650 rupees ($16). All we want to do is camp but that’s proving to be easier said than done. We had also come to realize that if we had found somewhere to put up the tent we would not get a moment’s peace and quiet…in fact within seconds we would be surrounded and would probably keep our visitors all night! And so we threw our dirty bags into the room – our bags were actually cleaner than most of the items in the room as it turned out. Dinner was two small plates of vegetable curry for 10 Rupees each (25 cents).

216-miles ridden.

Back inside I’d argued my case for paying 500 rupees instead of the 900 they’d asked. I was feeling pretty obstinate as we’d had no hot water last night and no water at all this morning. The floating present I’d left in the bottom of the loo was by way of childish protest. In truth, last nights luke warm dish of veggie curry had simply got the better of me.

We were still on the route 15 heading towards the city of Bikaner. We had decided to take this road deeper into Rajasthan instead of doing the ‘usual’ tourist route of going direct to Delhi, Agra, and Varansi etc. We both desperately want to see the desert forts of Rajasthan in Bikaner and Jaisalmer plus strangely enough we miss the desert, the sand and the emptiness! Or should I rephrase…lack of humans!

We both saw an opportunity for some great photos too as we understand that the colour of the clothing and turbans in Rajasthan are very vibrant. The colour of a turban may signify caste, religion and a special occasion. I.e. Rajputs traditionally wear saffron (signifies chivalry), Brahmins wear pink, Dalits brown and nomads wear black. White, grey, blue all signify sadness. Single women wear scarlet, pink, yellow and saffron saris; a red and yellow combination sari can only be worn by women who have borne a son! The many arm bangles and a vermillion coloured hair parting show that the woman is married and definitely ‘off-limits’!

This whole area has a very rich history with its Mughal empire and Maharajas. Known as a desert town, Bikaner has a fort close to the old walled city -7km long- containing painted Jain temples.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the traffic on the road leaving Suratgarh got less and less the further we headed south. This was a short day and we reached Bikaner early afternoon. The quick ride through the town was a pleasant surprise and the fort looked spectacular – can’t wait to have a wander through! However, the best laid out plans always seem to disintegrate. An early stop, unpack, shower, quiet wander and snack all disappeared when entering the hotel Harasar Haveli. We were met with such out and out enthusiasm that the manager had called in the press so we could give a ‘short’ interview. We didn’t really mind as they were really nice guys but the afternoon had finished by the time they had all left, taken their photos, details of the hotel, why we were here and so on. We had assurances that the ‘story’ would be out tomorrow…we shall see.

The small omelet’s we’d ordered were stone cold by the time they’d reached us; our poor server boy had raced to climb the 4 flights of stairs from the basement kitchen.

By 10:30am the morning fog had almost lifted and even the sun was threatening an appearance – the day was already warmer. Down at the reception we were halted from leaving by the young man behind the counter, who’d desperately yelled, “mister, mister, look ere, you are ere”! He was actually talking to both Lisa and me, but “mister, mister” is a pretty common call. He was enthusiastically waiving the morning paper as if his life depended on it and there on page two was a colour photo of the two of us and a small article all in Hindi.

We’d thought the hastily arranged interview from yesterday was just for a local paper, it never occurred to us it was for a national. I thought our young friend was going to soil himself with excitement.

I haven’t got a clue what the article said but, written in the intricate flowing shapes of Hindu, our story suddenly looked so much more exotic and enchanting than it had before.

With the cameras slung around our necks we headed off for Bikaner’s famous Junagarh Fort, a massive 16th century fortified residence and a genuine Indian icon. Like many we’d first seen the fort on the silver screen, it had been used as a backdrop in the 3rd installment of the ‘Indian Jones’ films. Five storey’s of elaborate stone work and carved latticed windows, where each Maharaja had invested vast sums of wealth and time into adding to the forts design.

Walking the filthy streets of Bikaner it struck me suddenly that we are actually in India. We’ve waited to get here for so long. Rickshaws narrowly miss each other by some miracle of telepathy, each one turning at the last second to avoid collision, cyclists weave to and fro through the traffic and cows just walk along the road side, chewing on…stuff? To our right a vast half empty water pool gives off a stale stench. The festering garbage that sits in the shallow water slowly rots. The smell of open sewers smell like I’d imagined parts of India would smell. The acrid stench replaced seconds later by the pungent wafts of spices from the close by market. Cinnamon, lemon grass and curry scent the air by the old town and suddenly we’re in a scene from Ali baba and the forty thieves, the scene completed as a convoy of the largest camels we’ve ever seen pass by, each pulling a makeshift cart. Their drivers landing almighty blows on the camels’ flanks with long stout whips as and whenever their speed dropped.

We’d found the small gap in the 986 metre long wall that surrounds the fort and headed up to the main gate and ticket office and handed over 100 rupees each for entrance and another 250 rupees for a an audio guide and camera fee. We’d been thrown off guard initially as the ticket officer had greeted us with, ”good morning Mr. Simon and Miss. Lisa” and had then grinned wider than I’d thought a face could ever have managed. A few seconds later and we’d realized that he’d too read the newspaper article. By the time we’d reached the first grand square we’d met 3 others who’d read it as well. Without the bikes or our gear it was a bit disconcerting but good fun.

Junagarh Fort was built between 1588 and 1593 by a General in the army of the Mughal emperor Akbar. Along with its 986 metre long wall (3,232.90 feet) it has 37 bastions and is surrounded by a moat. They really were ready for any type of attack! The palaces within the fort were amazingly decorated, especially the ‘Phool Mahal’ flower palace which also has carved marble panels. Take a look at some of the photos which just do not do it justice!

Towards the end of the tour I’d spotted an older women squatting on the floor taking a short rest between bouts of exhaustive floor sweeping. She was of the lowest caste, an ‘untouchable’ now known as Dalits, who all hold menial jobs. Her hands and face were showing the kind of texture and wear that comes from a lifetime of back braking work and servitude. I plucked up the courage to ask to take her photograph and a few minutes later we were both checking out the preview screen on the back of the camera. She was clearly delighted and excited to see herself in the camera. Loose bracelets jangled together around her skin and bone wrists. The skin on her hands was like that of her face, deeply lined and leathery. Sun darkened skin that had never felt anything as ‘luxurious’ as moisturizer or a UV sun screen. The bright orange chiffon scarf that covered her head seemed so delicate when compared to her life and her work. I felt awkward and odd taking her image, like a spectator at the zoo. She seemingly loved the attention. I need to get over this issue I have of taking peoples photos, it’s just that I feel so intrusive.

During our time in the fort we were taken to one side by one of the very watchful ‘guards’ who whispered to us that he would like to show us into the private rooms of the Mughal’s wives. Initially we were a little suspect as we had assumed he would want ‘additional payment’…but nope, not at all! He just wished to show what he thought were the most spectacular rooms of the palace and these were not open for public viewing. Not too sure why he chose us but we think it may be due to the fact that, unlike most of the other western tourists there at the same time as us, Simon had on trousers and a full length shirt and I was wearing the salwar kameez and dupatta. Salwar kameez is what a lot of the Indian women wear instead of the full sari- it consists of a full length pair of trousers covered by a long top (short of long sleeves) and long scarf as a head covering. Even though it sounds like it would be warm, it’s not. In fact it’s much more comfortable and cooler to wear this than normal western attire.

We wandered around the beautifully decorated private quarters. The lady’s ‘resting room’ was delicately painted with blue skies, while clouds with lightening forks coming out of them…the lightening painted with real gold paint. Just before leaving the guard asked if we would like to sit on the ‘throne’……of course I thought…someone has recognized my rightful place!

Back on the streets and within seconds we had 15 young men around us, each asking about the bikes and where we’d be going next, they’d also read the paper. Back at the hotel we headed for our room and began to download the 212 images we captures and the 16 AVI video files we collected.

With the sun gone the biting cold had returned with a vengeance.

Our room was desperately cold and so we grabbed a rickshaw around to Gallops as we remembered they had heating. We had stopped in Gallops yesterday as it was opposite the fort. Not a cheap place to visit , two pots of coffee and a sandwich later we had stretched it out as long as we could and so we walked back to the internet café where we worked for 3 ½ hours on emails and website.

For the evening there was nowhere warm to be and so we got into bed as we had curry delivered to the freezing room and watched the film ‘Man on Wire’. Really hope to starts to warm up soon!

India so far has been beautiful but cold. It had simply never crossed my mind that we’d wake up to freezing fog most mornings. Heading out of town the bikes felt great and we both felt excited about the upcoming day and the wonderfully familiar noise of the engines and the rumblings.

It was an easy 5 hour ride down to Jaisalmer and the Great Thar Desert. The desert is mainly arid scrubland with a few villages dotted about but the fort of Jaisalmer is definitely as breathtaking as the LP guide book describes it – ‘a massive sand castle rising from the sandy plains like a mirage from a bygone era’. This fort has 99 bastions!! Its streets are very narrow and pulsating with life – markets, animals, frenzied touts, rickshaw drivers, small motorbikes, kids, and some very pushy arrogant cows who know absolutely that they have the right of way!

As we got closer to Jaisalmer the touts came running out as we passed by – all desperate for our business – assuming that we wanted to continue on to the dunes for a camel safari, jeep tour, tent for the night and so on. ‘Mister, mister you come now’. ‘You have to stop now, not allowed any further’. (lie) ‘This is Jaisalmer’ (err…one house and a few camels…don’t think so!). Phrases like ‘lovely jubbly’ and ‘have a butchers’ (meaning have a look) were thrown at us making us feel like we were in some very bad film…..We had to disappoint them all.

We rode towards Gandhi Chowk (a chowk is the town square or market place) and up a very small alley way where we could see a hostel which looked like it had a roof top garden which looked out and over the old city towards the fort. It looked ideal. There was nowhere to park the bike apart from on the road and within seconds it seemed like all of the children of that area swarmed us and the bikes. Mmm. Not too happy about leaving the bikes out here. We were enticed in by the owners who tried the damdest to over charge us for a small and untidy room so Simon walked to a few other guest house to check on their prices. During this time I was approached by an Australian male tourist who asked if I was Lisa…and if so where was Simon! ….strange. Do I know him? How does he know us? I didn’t recognize him……

‘Oh great, it’s good to see you again.... I’m Tyler and we spent some time together in Mali, west Africa. I was on a KTM….are you guys still on the SAME trip!?
NO WAY!!!! This was in 2004.
We had a great time chatting and when Simon came back we had found a great place to stay just across the road called the hotel Prithvi Palace.
GPS: N26.55.139. E70.54.687