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Enfield Rally Kottayam

The great wonders of travel are not the palaces, mountains or monuments you see, but the uncanny coincidences and the moments that can neither be foreseen nor rec aptured. One such time led on from the breakdown of our Enfield a few hours after Garry and I had left the others in Kollam. The plan was to go to Kumily and the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary . Maeve was traveling with us but when the luggage was loaded up, the bike would only accommodate two. She would go by train to Kottayam, meet up with us for an overnight stay, and then continue her journey to Kumily by bus. Just before Kottayam, hot and thirsty, we stopped at a little stall. Attracting the usual crowds of inquisitive onlookers, we downed our drinks, and mounted the bike. Garry routinely kicked his foot down to take off. Nothing. Not a splutter. He tried again, and again. ”It’s the bloody kick-start,” he said, dismounting to examine what could have happened.

I got off to have a look; not that I was much use on mechanical matters. “What the hell are we going to do?” I asked. “Of all the days for this to happen, it would have to be Sunday, wouldn’t it. There will be nowhere open.” ”Give me a hand with the bags Rach, I’m going to have to try and push start it,” said Garry. Getting the bags strapped on to the bike every morning was a chore. Everything had to be perfectly balanced and then tied down tightly. We hadn’t been able to locate bungy cords so the bags were strapped on with old motorbike inner tubes. My heart sank, at the thought of going through the whole process again now. After unloading our luggage, Garry ran alongside the bike, while I gave it a shove from behind. The sound of the engine starting again was a big relief. Garry hopped on, and keeping the engine running, we began packing on the bags again.

We made it to Kottayam and headed straight for the railway station to pick up Maeve and take her to the bus depot. Garry waited outside with the motor running. A young Indian, also on an Enfield, pulled up beside him. ”You here for rally, Sir?” ”What rally?” asked Garry “Oh, big Enfield rally, start tomorrow. Many people like you here.” Did he mean tall and handsome? Probably not. ”No, I’m not here for the rally. I’m actually looking for a garage. The kick-start on my bike is broken.” ”Ah,” said the young man, smiling. “No problem. I take you to Enfield garage now. Come, come.” Delighted at having come to the rescue, our hero led Garry around the corner to the garage. Maeve and I were standing outside the railway station wondering what had become of Garry. After a few minutes, he pulled up with a big grin on his face. “Hi Maeve. Good trip? How would you two fancy joining an Enfield rally? ” he rushed. ” I’ve just met a guy at the garage who’s organising it. Two hundred bikers, and they’re heading in the same direction as us, leaving tomorrow.” Garry was all revved up. I looked at Maeve. ”Sounds like fun. ” I replied. “Why not?” This would mean spending the night in Kottayam, but what the hell? There was no rush. “You have to come up to the garage and see this,” said Garry

So with the three of us on board the bike, we headed to the garage. There stood one hundred and fifty shiny, new Enfields. The place was buzzing with mechanics making last minute adjustments. In their midst, an Anglo-Indian, named John, was yelling orders and struggling over paper work trying to ensure that all the bikes were being seen to. He explained to us that the the rally was being held for charity. More than 350,000 pounds had been raised towards the building of a hospital for cancer care and research in Calicut. A hundred and fifty bikers were arriving from Britain and purchasing the bikes in India. It was John’s job to make sure there was a working bike ready for each rider. We were now eager to take part so we arranged to meet at the garage early the next morning. As it happened, we were all staying at the same hotel. The restaurant was packed and buzzing as everybody talked about the following day. ”So, what’s it like traveling India on an Enfield?” the newly arrived bikers asked us. “Is it dangerous?” ”Are there loads of accidents on the roads?” someone inquired, a bit nervously. We tried to be as honest as possible. ”Well, you have to be very careful, and on your guard at all times, but it’s a good laugh,” answered Garry, not wanting to tell them that at times it can be downright suicidal and that you’d have to be a little bit mad to travel the Indian roads by motorbike. I’m sure most people had a fair idea of that, but I don’t think anything ever quite prepares you for just how insane the roads here can be.

A handful of participants had missed their train from Madras, postponing the rally for a day so the group decided to take the bikes for a trial run through Kottayam. Garry, Maeve and I squeezed onto our Enfield and joined them. As anyone who has ever ridden an Enfield will tell you, it can be quite tricky and takes a bit of getting use to. On most modern bikes, the gears are on the left and the back brake on the right. On the Enfield, it’s the opposite, and just to make it a bit more tricky the gears are not 1-down, 4-up, but 1-up, 3-down. The bikers took to the street with hilarious consequences. Some would go for the brakes but hit the gears and sent their bikes lurching forward; others had stalled and couldn’t restart their bikes. The organisers and more experienced riders ran around restarting bikes and explained the gearing set-up but to no real avail. Shy Indian women were giggling from their doorways, young men offered their help to those who had stalled, children ran mischievously behind the bikes. A forlorn- looking policeman who had been directing traffic stood with his hands up, shaking his head in disbelief.

Practically the whole city was out at 6am the next morning to witness the start of the rally. The atmosphere was electric. Luggage was being strapped on; bikes were revving up. Everyone was eager to get started and last minute arrangements were being made through the organisers. Maeve had hoped to travel on the back of someone’s bike, but due to hassles with her luggage, she was forced to take the bus. We left the coast and along with our posse of bikers, we began the ascent into the Western Ghats, a picturesque mountain range that runs along India’s southeast coast. After a couple of hours, we were quite a bit ahead of the others and decided to stop for a break. Children gathered around while we sipped our cokes. ”Just wait,” teased Garry. ”Just you wait! In ten minutes, there will be 150 bikes roaring around the corner.” He held up his ten fingers and repeated, “Ten minutes. Vroom, vroom!” They giggled, not comprehending a word he had said. We sat and waited. A bike roared through the village, then another, and another. The sight of just one bike had excited them enough, but they had never seen anything like this before. Now it was our turn to laugh at their astounded faces, watching what must have seemed to them like an invasion of aliens! Catching up with the rally again, we drove with them as far as Kumily. They had planned to spend a night here, but had to push on, due to their earlier delay. We bid them goodbye and wished them well on the rest of their journey.

The bustling little village of Kumily is set in the midst of sprawling tea and coffee plantations, which cover the surrounding hillsides. After booking into a little guesthouse near the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, we went to collect Maeve from the bus station. ”How was your trip?” I asked her. ”Well, I’m still alive, so I’d say it was pretty good!” she laughed. With the three of us on the bike, we dropped Maeve’s things off at the guesthouse and drove up to the Sanctuary. It’s in a beautiful setting, among mountains and lush dense forest. It was made even more spectacular by the warm light of the evening sun casting long shadows over the lake. Monkeys nimbly scaled the trees, which had taken on brilliant hues of red, yellow, and orange. This was the perfect time of day for a boat trip on the lake. The coolness of the evening had enticed deer, buffalo and wild dogs down to the shady banks of the water. We spotted a herd of elephants in the distance, slowly making their way out of the forest, where they had been sheltered from the intense heat of the day. There was a mystical atmosphere to the place, and images of Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book came back to all of us.

This is a truly wonderful part of India and the locals treat it with due respect. It’s kept in pristine condition, and the peace and tranquility here was a refreshing contrast to what had so far been a rather noisy trip. Lovely as the boat trip was, it wasn’t enough. We wanted to see the beautiful jungle creatures close up and to do this, we’d have to trek. Our timing was bad though; a few days previously, a bull elephant in musk had charged a tourist who got too close. Until the rangers were sure the elephant and the herd had calmed down, there would be no trekking. We left the office downhearted. ”Hey, you want to go on trek?” a voice came from behind us. A man walked hurriedly past, and then turned a corner in front of us. We were intrigued and followed him. It was all very conspiratorial. After making sure we were out of sight of any park rangers, he turned to us. ”If you come here early tomorrow morning, I take you on trek through jungle.” he said. “I am a guide here.” Our hearts were set on doing this trek and he obviously wanted some extra money. Once the park was closed, the guides did not get paid. ”What do you think?” said Garry.” Will we go for it? Maeve and I looked at each other. “Yeah,” we both said in unison. “Why not?” “It’s what we came her to do, and it’d be a shame to miss it. Right we’ll do it,” Garry said to the guide.

It was still dark when we arrived at the gates early the next morning. There was a chill in the air, but we were well wrapped up in our fleece jackets. The hotel had made food for us, so we were ready to go. The guide crouched down and spoke quietly. ”If you see me running,” he said ominously, “Run!” ”You have done this before?” I asked, suddenly feeling a bit anxious. He could see the concerned look on all our faces.” Of course I have, Madam, no need to worry,” he said with an unresting grin. He led us quietly along a path that ventured deep into the forest. Thick mist was hanging still in the crisp morning air, surrounding us like a blanket. Bears, tigers, even elephants could have been lurking just feet away and we would have been none the wiser. An hour or so after our tentative start, the sun started to break its way through the mist. Through the stillness came a cacophony of birds calling and the cackling of monkeys. The jungle was alive. It was at once unnerving and enthralling.

Marching on, the heat of the sun started to penetrate through the trees, and layers of clothing were shed, until we were down to shorts and T-shirts. We caught sight of buffalo, wild pigs, deer, and the ever-present monkeys. By now, the mist had completely cleared, and we marveled at their co-ordination and incredible agility as they swung effortlessly from branch to branch. Thick rope-like vines hung down from the trees making the perfect playground for our new companions, who seemed as interested in us as we were in them. We’d been trekking for hours, our guide stopping all the while to study animal tracks or listen for far-off calls. We were beginning to give up hope of seeing elephants or tigers when from behind I heard our guide. ”Look!” he whispered excitedly “Look, over there elephants” There, just meters away stood a herd of elephants grazing and wallowing by the lake. We crept quietly closer, and crouching among the trees, watched in awe as they went about their business. There were about five or six adults and four newborn baby elephants splashing about. Nearby a bull elephant, the leader of the herd, was grazing and keeping an occasional eye on the group. We could have stayed for hours, but one of the big bull elephants detected us. He was staring in our direction, though obviously unable to see us; elephants have very weak eyesight. When he started heading in our direction, it was our cue to leave, and we retreated quietly back into the jungle. Once we were safely out of his line of vision, the guide stopped again. ”I find you elephant!” he cried.” I’m a good guide? Yes?” ”Indeed you are, the best!” we all replied, giving him a gentle pat on the back. The joy on our guide’s face was plain to see, he knew he’d earned his tip and was delighted.

Having fallen into a rhythm for the 10km hike, it was abruptly shattered when the guide, who had been walking ahead, suddenly turned back and fled past us. Without a word, he rushed of into the jungle. Mindful of his earlier warning, we turned in pursuit, frantically trying to keep up with him. He cleared a ledge and dashed into the thicket. ”Down, down, quick!” he urged. Obeying his orders, we huddled into the tall grass, not saying a word. Nervous, but excited we sat there, wondering what we were hiding from. After a few moments he spoke. ”It’s okay now. They’re gone,” he gasped, struggling to get his breath back. ”What was it?” asked Garry. The guide shook his head, still panting. “A tiger?” Another shake of the head. “A bear?” “No,” he gasped. ”Park rangers.” The three of us looked at each other in relief and were tempted to giggle, but this fear was all too real for our guide. It could have meant losing his livelihood. ”We have to go back the long way now,” he told us. So, pushing on quietly with our eyes peeled, we were led off the path, through the forest.

When we reached a river which was too wide to cross, the guide haggled with the lone skipper of a bamboo raft. He turned to us and said, “He want too much money. We must walk.” ”We don’t mind paying,” said Maeve, now tiring and ready to put her feet up. She pulled an agonised face, and I knew how she felt. It was hot and we had been walking for hours. A shortcut home would have eased the pain. ”I have already said no. He wants to much.” The guide was adamant. I think it would have hurt his pride to pay the raft owner his price, so that was that. We trudged on until the river narrowed and waded across, getting soaked. It was about 1pm by now, and the midday heat was getting more and more intense. Initially cooled by our paddle, we were dried off too quickly by the heat of the sun. The detour had added another two hours onto the walk. Getting hotter and dehydrated, we were relieved to finally see the road that runs through the park. We had made it back without getting seen by rangers or attacked by elephants or tigers. We paid our guide a good month’s wage - he had after all taken a big risk- and wished him well. It had been a wonderful day-truly unforgettable!

We were by now in tea and coffee country. The best of Indian tea is grown in the more northern Indian states from where such fine teas such Assam and Darjeeling come. Kerala is more of a PG Tips producer, but abundant in plantations nonetheless. The next day, Maeve, Garry and I hired a rickshaw and a guide to show us the tea coffee and spice plantations set on the hills around Kumily. Our first stop was a small family-run farm of no more than about two acres, where we were welcomed with warm smiles by the woman of the house. Both she and the guide walked us through the neatly laid out garden, abundant with plants bearing herbs, spices, fruit, tea and coffee. She had little English, but the guide translated and told us that the couple had farmed all their lives and were reasonably successful. Clearly they were not rich but neither were they greedy. They lived in beautiful, peaceful surroundings and were content with what they had. Her husband invited us into a tiny outhouse to show us their produce, while she went and made some freshly ground coffee.

After buying some peppercorns and papayas from them, we headed to a tea- processing factory not far away. Outside the large stone building, carpenters were making intricate tea chests. Inside about 20 people were going about the process of sifting the leaves, after which they were stuffed through antique-looking machines to dry. There was no ventilation, very little light and a constant noise. Health and safety regulations were non-existent here. Worst of all was the dust, and I wondered about the eventual effect on the lungs of these workers. They told us they worked ten hours a day, six days a week to earn 1000 rupees a month, the equivalent of around £25. ”How much you earn in your country?” one of the workers was keen to know. Our answer, even though on the conservative side, led to wide-eyed stares, and looks of disbelief. ”You very, very rich,” he said. We quickly went on to explain to them how much more expensive the cost of living was in our part of the world. ”250 rupees for one packet of cigarettes,” said Garry “Only 10 rupees here,” he said looking a lot happier. Despite the long hours and the poor conditions, the men were content; they were the lucky ones, they had a job. Our guide now took us to a viewing point overlooking the state of Tamil Nadu, which borders Kerala. We sat, munching our papaya, and the driver began telling us a story. Indians love to tell stories. They love romances, epics, and tragedies. ”Not long ago, young woman throw herself off rocks right here,” he began. This woman had an affair with a local man, and had became pregnant. She pleaded with him to marry her, but he refused. Knowing her family would disown her, she took her own life by jumping off the very cliff where we were sitting.

Kumily had been wonderful, but it was time to move on. Maeve had planned to do a two-week yoga and meditation course in Trivandrum and was heading back that way. We both knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other for a good while and saying goodbye is never easy. I would greatly miss her companionship and good humour, and there were tearful hugs as we parted. Back down to two again, we packed up the faithful Enfield, and headed for the Tamil Nadu border, and our next destination, Kodaikanal. It was a hard day’s drive and we passed some of the poorest, most run down villages we had yet encountered. Little shacks, constructed from bamboo and dried woven palm leaves, were the mode of housing. It happened to be washday in one of these tiny settlements. From the bridge, where we stopped, we could see maybe fifty women and children at the foot of a small group of waterfalls, thrashing the dirt from their clothes, whacking them over the rocks. They were already well into the task and the small islands in the river were covered in vibrantly coloured, wet fabrics, strewn out to dry.

Washday is a social occasion as well as a chore. As the women chattered constantly while they worked, the children splashed about happily in the shallows. I couldn’t help thinking that, hard as the work may seem, they wouldn’t thank you for a washing machine. The day at the river gives the women a chance to get out and socialise, not something they get to do too often. Eventually, when we were spotted, the chatter began to cease. We felt we were intruding. Moving on, we began the ascent up to Kodai stopping frequently to admire the view over waterfalls and misty rocky outcrops. Surrounded by thickly wooded slopes and spectacular views, the hill station of Kodaikanal was established during the Raj. American missionaries set up a school for European children during the 1840s, which still has the reputation of being one of the most prestigious schools in India. The drop in temperature moving up from the valley was noticeable, but we were surprised to see the locals wrapped up in scarves and gloves. It wasn’t that cold. The absence of mosquitoes was a welcome change, and for a few days, we enjoyed this lovely cool climate.

Making our way down the mountain again, temperatures quickly rising to above thirty degrees, we made an overnight stop in Coimbatore, an ugly, industrial town. The heat of the valley was oppressive after the cool climes in Kodai. A few days at another hill station was not going to go amiss. To get there we faced another 2000m climb, through sharp winding roads. Dark clouds began to form as we approached the top. ”I don’t think we’re going to make it without getting soaked,” I said. “We’d better get our rain gear on.” Garry pulled the bike into the roadside and began searching for the rain gear. “Here we go, right at the bottom” he said pulling clothes from the bag. We didn’t expect rain for another few months at least and we certainly didn’t expect hail. Our waterproofs were no match for the deluge that followed. The rain and hail came down in sheets. We were still an hour from Ooty and with the temperature dropping around every corner, we arrived soaked and chilled to the bone. ”Who’s idea was it to come to another stupid hill station?” I said to Garry, shivering. He glared at me. ”Don’t even start…!” Stopping at the first hotel we could find, we quickly checked in, only to be told there would be no hot water until the next morning. Oh boy!

The city of Ooty is sometimes labeled “snooty Ooty.” Like Kodai it has a number of prestigious schools, where the children of wealthy Indian families are sent to board. These were founded during the British Empire and teach English as a first language. There’s quite a large western population here, most of whom would be teachers at the various schools. It was actually too cold here, so after two nights, we decided to push on. The road from Ooty to Mysore took us through another wildlife reserve. Driving for miles down the mountain without encountering another vehicle was a luxury. Only the sounds of birds and waterfalls competed with the purr of our Enfield. As we reached the valley entering the reserve, there were still no signs of any traffic. Taking full advantage of this, we cruised along at an easy pace, encountering deer and monkeys along the way. The temperature began to rise, but unfortunately, so did Garry’s. He hadn’t felt great leaving Ooty that morning, but as the heat of the valley hit him, he started deteriorating rapidly. We made it to Mysore, and quickly started looking for accommodation. It is the coincidences of travel that never cease to take you by surprise.

Searching the streets, desperate to find somewhere fast, I noticed a Western woman stop, stare at us and yell out. ”Hey, Rachel, Garry!” It was Crystal, the Frenchwoman we had met in Goa when we were buying the bike. After remarking on how small the world really is, we told her we were in a rush to find a place, so Garry could get his head down. ”We’re staying just around the corner,” she told us. “It’s not bad, and it’s cheap.” This sounded just fine to us, so we followed her there and booked in. Garry, by now, had a raging temperature and crawled straight into bed. He slept for a few hours and, though he was still weak when he woke up, the fever appeared to have subsided. He dragged himself up later that evening to see the majestic Mysore Palace. Until independence, it was the residence of the Maharajas of Mysore, and every Sunday night between 7 and 8pm it is lit up with thousands of light bulbs. This was something neither of us wanted to miss, and though I’m sure Garry would have happily stayed in bed, he was glad he came along. Our time in Mysore was lovely. There was plenty to see and in the evenings, we ate together with Kevin and Crystal. “By the end of this trip, I’ll have seen very little of India, but I’ll be able to write a book about the inside of garages throughout the country!” Kevin joked bitterly. He and Crystal had had nothing but bother with their Enfield since they had bought it at Anjuna market. Almost every day, it needed something else done to it. ”Any chance of a swap?” he laughed ”I don’t think so,” we replied, feeling sorry for them, but also very thankful. This could so easily have been our bike.

Our smugness came too soon. A few days later, as we were cruising though Mysore, en route to the palace, a young guy on a pushbike swerved right out in front of us. Garry slammed on the brakes but it was too late. We crashed right into him, knocking him over, and buckling his bike. A few seconds of terror ensued. A bit shocked, but not hurt, he got up and pulled his bike over. ”Are you okay?” Garry asked, obviously concerned. Before we had the chance to pull our bike over, a man came running out onto the road and stood in front of us. ”You go nowhere. Must pay compensation.” ”Excuse me. Can I move the bike, please?” Garry asked. The man held the handlebars, shouting, “Pay money now!” He refused to move, getting more and more aggressive and obnoxious. By this time the bike had been swarmed by onlookers - some shouting, some just giggling. They would not let us through even to move the bike off the road, and by now the crowds had caused the traffic to almost come to a standstill. People were getting out of their cars to see what was happening. For about fifteen minutes, we tried, in vain to reason with them, but nobody was listening to a word we had to say. The words “Pay, pay”, “Money, money” and “Compensation, compensation” just kept getting repeated in an almost frenzied fashion. They were closing in tighter; I could feel myself about to explode in fury, but had to quell it. If they sensed anger, they would probably find it all the more entertaining! This was starting to get more and more surreal. The poor guy that we had knocked over was just standing there, looking rather meek.

Eventually a policeman appeared, but did nothing to control the mayhem. The fact that the crowd was causing an obstruction in the middle of a busy street, seemed not to bother him in the slightest. Trying to explain to him what had happened proved futile, as our voices were drowned out by the screaming of what must have been about fifty other versions from the crowd. ”Come to station,” the policeman finally ordered us. We had to wheel our bike up the street, following the policeman, with the crowd in tow. People were coming out of their shops to join what now looked like a demonstration! Some semblance of civility reigned at the police station where the chief of police managed to shoo most of the crowd away. The instigator was still shouting out his version of events, with the cyclist standing there saying nothing. They spoke among themselves for a bit. ”You must pay this man 100 rupees,” the policeman ordered.

Garry put 100 rupees into the young guy’s pocket and we left, thankful it was all over. Back on the street, there were still a few stragglers. Getting back on the bike, we noticed that the indicator had been snapped off. Too tired to even be bothered about this, we drove off. The palace was now forgotten. A few drinks were what we needed. Back in our regular restaurant, we chilled out over a few beers. Joined by Kevin and Crystal, we relayed the story back to them. Little by little, the frustration seeped away and we gradually began to see the funny side of it. Just another day in India!