Phew… cartwheels finally! Ribbing it in, ain’t I?

Yeah, so what the duce huh? After last time’s futile attempt to do something worth writing about, I was kinda sorta hoping to get some juicy stuff to write about this week. And boy, I lived up to my own expectations, and how.

First I had a late night yesterday at the Casba with some friends, and then today was the day when the clocks goes from 1.59 am to 3.00 am i.e. we lost an hour (so I effectively slept for about 3 hours), and then I missed the first of five trains which I must take to get my fat ass to Feldberg. Carried the camera, but not the memory card. Darn. Enough of whining.

Missing the train gave me an interesting diversion. It was classic Googie, train starts to pull away as you make a hurried last minute filmy entry onto to the platform. Anyhoo, since I was hungry (hey! it was 6.39 am) and since the next train was just waiting to leave, I took it to and got off at a random station to grab breakfast. Breakfast in hand… err… partly in mouth too, the ruminating commenced - about what kind of an idiot wakes up so early and other sundry uninteresting things which occupy any given reasonable person’s mind.

The delirious early morning ruminations were interrupted by the sight of a slight bespectacled man hobbling towards me. “Zuuureesh. René”, he drawled in a French accent. He was obviously drunk. The only way I knew to Zurich, was via Konstanz, so I helped him along, “Sie mussen nach Konstanz fahren, und vom da Sie kann weiter nach Zurich fahren..”. “Merci monsieur”, he thanked me and started hopping towards the ticket vending machine. Yes. Hopping. Right-ho, like a rabbit. It was a scene straight out of Alice in wonderland. And no, I was not high on pot, or magic cake.

A few minutes later, he was back on the platform, bathroom-singing at the top of his voice, “Zureeessssh, Rene..”, and dancing around the few available pillars. Think bollywood movies of the 80s, the ugly songs, and dancing around trees. Now you get the picture. The poor guy got into trouble with the cops, who wanted him to shut the F*** up, which he promptly did and thus ended the morning show. Oh boy, I must say, travelling Deutsche Bahn can be very entertaining.

Without further entertainment, I was at Hebelhof/Feldberg, to be told by the ski-school that there were no classes for the day, and since I was so “good” the last time, I could try doing my own thing. Yeah. What are the chances of that? Dang.

The thing is, it was very foggy, visibility was around 50 meters. The snow – white, the air – white. Bewitching. No wonder there was hardly a soul around. At the ski lift, another skier offered to share the ride, and I accepted. It takes about 10 odd minutes to reach the top (990 meters, and elevation gain of 124 meters) so we got talking. He was there on vacation with his family. They had rented a Ski hut, which he showed when we passed it. Then I told him I was from India, and that 3 hours of train journey to find a place to ski was better than travelling a whole day changing two planes to do the same, which is why I was doing this again and again. And, hold your breath, his sister in law is an Engineer working in Pune. What are the chances of that? Then I told he I went to school in Pune, and we were both like – what a small world. We guys kept talking until we reached the top.

The whole day was pretty uneventful. Almost. I could still do all the things I had previously learnt. I was sniggering when I saw beginners struggling to stop. Ain’t life grand? Then on my last run for the day – after about 12 runs, I also learnt something new. Skiing hurts.

First, it was quite wet, and then my ski got stuck in the snow while was speeding down the slope. Don’t ask me how. It just happened. The stuck ski became the pivot and I was tossed up in the air. I did a couple of cartwheels – one of them I distinctly remember was completely airborne, the two on the slope. And sometime while my limbs were flying around, one of the ski poles (thankfully not the pointed end) kissed my chest. There was only one other person on the slope (within visible range), a kid – perhaps 7 or 8 years old. He had fallen too, and he had just finished picking himself up when Circus Sushil started its act. And I could hear, “Oh oh!” echo across as I was doing ma thang for the day. It was painfully hilarious.

I didn’t feel much pain until I had returned the ski equipment, and was on the bus to Titisee. And now the ribs on my right side hurt. It hurts to laugh, to cough, to get up if I am sitting, to sit if I am standing, to bend, or to even lift up my arms. Not like I will die type hurts, but an irritating kind of hurt which you can tolerate, but wish you didn’t have. Arrgh.

In anycase, if I ever get to ski again - it won't be without a helmet. I now know why one needs it.

At Titisee I met a whole bunch of Indians. And a few were from Bangalore, so I got to speak in Kanada. “Yen magga”, and everything. And they work for the same firm as the man’s sister-in-law. And they knew someone, who I knew who worked at that firm. Small world indeed.

Ouch. @#$%^&@@!! Can’t a man yawn in peace?

31-03-2010 Update: The doc says I have fractured 3 of my ribs. I am not supposed to do any sports for 6 weeks. The darn ribs still hurt. I cannot sleep well, etc etc. So, so this experiment must not be tried at home and everything else....

Phew… cartwheels finally! Ribbing it in, ain’t I?

I can stop! Damit!

What can I say? Sometimes, I disappoint myself. Like this post’s title. What the eff was I thinking? Anyhoo, this weekend’s ski trip was dull compared to the last one. I could stop. When I wanted to. And no, not with a “controlled” fall. I could turn left, or right. At will. Going up with the ski lift, was however, a different story. But hey, we ain’t livin’ in no perfect world! In the grand scheme of things*, it couldn’t have been a better day.

Get yer pillows out. Put yer peejamas on. Damit! Don’t you have anything better to do? Sigh. Oh well. I told you so.

We reached Feldberg at around 9 or 9.15 ish, after the mandatory 5 train/bus changes. The ladies went Snowboarding at the Hof, and I trudged down to the other side – to the On Snow Ski school, to rent my equipment and continue where I left off last time. I must say, the guys at the school weren’t terribly thrilled to see me again. I wouldn’t have been either, if I were them, and if they had to undergo what they had to with me the last time I was there. But, customer service and everything, they put up a brave and friendly face, and said, “Hey! how are you doing man?”

The last time, I remember, I requested for UK size 10 shoes, and by the end of the day my feet were ready to grow hands and strangulate me. So, this time I requested for European size 45 shoes. But I said - “Size 45 – US please”. Damit!

The guy at the counter, who kinda sorta reminded me Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, you know – brown hair, lanky, long bearded face, semi curly mop, sweat shirt wearing kinda guy, grinned, and mentally asked me, “What the *.*.*.*.*.”. This is what happens when someone interrupts my labored effort to speak German, by posing a question in English. Anyway, I assured him I was no Yeti, and that I meant to ask for the European size 45.

Suitably kitted out, I headed out. The weather was perfect to learn skiing. It was snowing, it was windy, and it was freezing freaking cold and what that meant was, less people on the slopes. Bingo! Larzro, our instructor for the day, was getting the group together. The minor minor blizzard like conditions had everybody hooded and ski glassed – like Kenny from Southpark. I swear I cannot recognize any from my group if I were to see them again. Unfortunately, that also includes the instructor.

The only spectacular incident of the morning session, apart from the minor miracle that I could stop and turn at will, was the very late addition of a certain Mr. Kamikaze to the group. Ironically, he was Chinese**. He reminded me a lot of myself on my first day***. The guy could not stop. Period. He fell more often than the nine pins put together in a high scoring bowling game. I felt sorry for him. And the instructor instantly christened him “Kamikaze”. The rest, I must report, suffered no falls in the morning – thanks to the instructor’s super insistence that we all get the basics of balance right.

The afternoon session was when we guys learnt to use the ski lifts. Sounds easy, but I managed to fall out three times. Only once, was it my fault, the other two, was thanks to the other guy (or so I assume, because the next time we went alone, I got to the top just fine and he fell out of the lift.) Anyhoo, now I was a nervous wreck. I had singlehandedly managed to muck up the rest of the queue. There were people waiting, I was falling, I was getting psyched, and the cycle was spiraling out of control. Until, the instructor came with me. The guy was like aVipasana teacher#. A calm, collected and soothing presence which in a jiffy puts a mind, as troubled as mine, at ease.

And up we went, “Look, what a beautiful day it is”, he said, while asking me to see the islands of blue in the sea of gray overhead.

“Look, at the pervert wind playing with the snow”, he said while pointing to the giant whorls of snow strewn all over the hill as the wind gently lifted a fine layer of snow on its journey over the slopes.

“See, how calm it is to climb up with the lift”, he said, interrupting only the sound of two pairs of skis.

And, just like that, going up a ski lift became enjoyable.

It could easily have been the monotonous drone of, "Breath in, breath out. Feel the air passing your nostrils, and in your nose and in the wind pipe. Feel the air go out as it hits your upper lip. In and out", numbing the brain into a coma. But it wasn't and this was way better.

Really, I wish I could regale you with stories of me tumbling down the hill, crashing into trees, breaking a limb or two, or whatever other morbid scenario you may want to imagine. Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be. Don’t blame me man, it was the freaking universe.

But then, there was that thing on the train… Yes, something on a train. Again…

One of the 3 trains we took on the return leg, was a two car train between Neustadt and Donaueshingen. The train is too small for the number of people travelling, so one has to rush, wade in, and grab whatever seats are available. And when 3 people are travelling together, one can hardly be picky about where one sits. We found ourselves in this pickle too, and yours truly spotted these two rows of seats facing each other, the ones which makes train journeys interesting. The old man sitting in one of the four seats really didn’t matter. So, then now we were four.

After sitting down, I looked at the old man a bit more carefully. He was old alright, withered round face; white hair; long flowing uneven unkempt beard; a walrus moustache which i am sure doubled up as a tea strainer as well – guessing by the faint tinge of brown at the edges; and mischievous eyes peering through rimless, alas not circular, pair of spectacles sitting on a round short nose; He was a bit on the plumper side and the white reindeers running along the border of his red woolen cap made it difficult not to imagine him as Santa Claus.

He was working diligently at a word jumble puzzle, and by the pace at which he was filling up the blank spaces, one could safely assume that the top story was still sharp, alert and often worked overtime, or that he was really good at making up his own answers. In anycase, I was impressed. I was hardly finished being impressed that he fished out a tiny bottle of alcohol from the depths of his jacket and took a swig. With panache. A swig which would have made the badest scallywag look like an innocent kindergarten kid. And then he let out a small burp.

After a while of getting bored looking at the black forest rush us by, the old man causally lifted the lid of the garbage bin between our seats. The open lid revealed the necks of two open beer bottles. Earlier in the day, I had seen an old lady fish out bottles from similar garbage bins, presumably to return them to a supermarket for 10 cents. So, that image was still floating around in my mind, when Santa Claus pulls out one of the beer bottles from the garbage bin, holds it up to the light (now the whole compartment can see the bottle), then peers at it with his old eyes to take stock of how much beer is still available. Satisfied, he took a quick sip of the stale flat beer. Replaced the bottle back in the garbage bin, and closed the lid.

Eyes met, smirks were exchanged and eyes were rolled, eyebrows were pointed, but we did not laugh.

Then we started talking. In English. The old man’s ears perked up, his curiosity was certainly tingled - “But this was an alien tongue these people were talking in, Or?”. Then the two ladies switched to German, and now he was positively confused. What was he hearing? Could it be? He could understand English! What the duce? He hurriedly brought out the remaining stash of whiskey and took a giant swig. Crap! He could still understand English. What the!

He had to join the conversation! This is so exciting! and he made his grand opening statement, “Abbaa baaa hmpf”. Damit!

And he went real silent. So did we. After a while he slowly lifted the lid of the garbage bin and gradually retrieved the beer bottle. He held it up again against the light. It was supposed to be beer. Damit!

I need a prize for not laughing! Really!

Und damit mache ich schloss :)

*Can’t seem to rid myself of this phrase. Damit!

**The Chinese hate the Japanese people. Damit!

*** Damit! This is your SECOND day! Stop being so patronizing!

# Loooonnggg story. Me dad had forced me as a child to attend this meditation course. Scarred me for life.

I can stop! Damit!

Smo(S)kiingggg, somebody stop me!

Last Sunday, someone tried his hand (shouldn’t it be legs?) at skiing. Someone went to Feldberg in the black forest, a good beginners slope. Someone went to On-snow skischool. Someone couldn’t stop. Someone. Someone…

Earlier in the day, I changed 4 trains and one bus to get me fat lazy self to Feldberg. As always it was a fairly uneventful journey. Almost. Remember it is me. So, there has to be this one freaking stupid incident, where the 0-watt candle hiding in the remote recess of my cranium shines so bright, that it could illuminate 300,000 homes for a whole nano-second. Right? Yeah. I had my moment(s). But, on the way back. What happened on the way to Feldberg is something else more mundane, but nevertheless something which I would like to chronicle for the sake of chronicling.

At Singen (about 30 minutes into my journey) these two guys get into the train, and take a seat. One of the guys – about 30 ish - close crop of blond hair, ram-rod straight seating position, polished leather shoes clashing with blue jeans and a green bomber jacket. I could swear he was ex-mil. Ex-mil because, to me, the two silver loop earrings prominently hanging from his ear lobes seemed out character for a current military bloke. The other guy seemed more relaxed – a slight hint of a paunch, sneakers, hoodie sweatshirt, a backpack and a thick beard which would have made Bud Spenser proud. The two sat across each other and started talking in a tone and manner which one would associate with a couple normal blokes nursing a manageable hangover from a jovial und gemütlich night out the previous evening.

As the train started moving, these two guys got up and headed to the other end of the bogie to a co-passenger. The relaxed cop sat beside the passenger, while the ex-mil guy sat on the hand rest. Text book good cop, bad cop routine huh? Dang, I must be reading too much pulp fiction. Anyhoo, they started asking the passenger some questions. In German of course, and out of ear-shot, so I didn’t quite get what was happening. But I could see that they were frisking this guy and rummaging through his backpack. And I was thinking – are these two thugs? Are they stealing from this passenger? Freaky. Overdrive, my 0-watt brain went into.

They made their way through the train doing the same with every passenger, and especially hard on teenagers. They flipped out some sort of official ID when they approached my seat. They claimed to be cops.

“Ah cool, Polizei!”, I exclaimed and gave them a nod of approval, and then like a smart ass**, “Fahrkarte, oder?”

The relaxed cop nodded a no, and said - “No, Passport please” (In English!)

“Ach so, naturalisch, ein moment bitte. Miene Deutsch ist nicht so gut, aber ich probiere”, I said while extracting my passport from my backpack and handing it over to him.

“Oh! Indisch!”, said the cop with unconcealed glee as he saw the shiny gold Republic of India lettering on the weathered blue passport. “Aber besser dann meine Indisch”, he added. I was flummoxed. What did he mean? It took a while for the wick to heat and illuminate. The man thought we all spoke Indian in India, hehe, just as Indians think Gobi Manchurian is a Chinese dish :) So, I let out a delayed forced laugh “Har har har”.

Then he said very slowly, “Wohin Fahrest du jetzt?”.

“Ich Fahre nach Feldberg. Ich werde gerne Skifahren lernen”

“Feldberg, gut gut. Huete es ist schones wetter, a… bis 2011, gut gut”, he said while looking at my visa.

And then he asked to see my backpack. The cover of Malclom Gladwell’s – “What the dog saw”, which I was reading to kill time, had him in splits. “Ha ha, Der Hund, ha ha”, he kept doing the Muttle laugh while pointing at the cover.

“Super, viel spass!”, he said, and it was over just like that. No frisking, nothing, none of the drama my other co-passengers were subjected to. It pays to act retarded, OR? But, the German classes seems to be working in my favor. However, this was not my “smartest” moment of the trip.

Anyways, I reached Feldberg – Barenthal, without further entertaining intermissions. There was only one bus to ferry almost a whole train load of passengers to Feldberg-Hof. Needless to say, if you are slow enough, you will get left behind. Darwin at work. So I got ready to rush, and reminded myself that queues are not naturally formed in these parts.

There were like a billion people already at Feldberg Hof. The place has innumerable number of ski schools, and ski equipment stores, so you can rent/buy almost everything you need at any of the places. Perhaps at a “discount” too, because it was towards the end of the season?

Since, I had already registered with On-Snow skischool for a one day course, I started hunting around for this place. It is not at Feldberg – Hof, but is a bit out of the way but easily approachable by foot in a little under 5 minutes. On-Snow charges 30 euros for a one day course. And 20 euros for the next day, and 15 for the next and so on so forth. You can also rent the skis and boots or snowboards and helmets here for 15 euros a day. If you do not know how to ski, take the course, it is the best way to learn. They have two two hour sessions. One in the morning from 1000 to 1200 and another from 1315 to 1515. The learning groups can be as small as three, which works to your advantage.

Errrr, hmm, embarrassing as it is, it wasn’t only Toyota Motors who had problems stopping runaway and out of control locomotive equipment. Yours truly could not stop while hurtling* down the slopes. It took some luck and some unfathomable instinct to avoid crashing right into my fellow skiers – big or small, red or blue, men or women, experts or beginners.

I really was petrified of crashing into a bunch of kids practicing downhill, but these cheeky little kids have no fear. They don’t have to worry about tomorrow, something which sadly burdens an adult’s mind. These kids will go ultra fast and are not afraid of falling down. Anyways, these kids made sure I am now an expert at “preemptive roll overs”, err… well… actually some people call it falling down, but I, I beg to differ.

Late in the evening the instructor took us, the “langsam Anfänger” group for a “langsam pflug” down the slope. When he said pflug, my nascent Deutsch neural net recognized it as flug – i.e. to fly. So we were suppose to fly slowly? I was perplexed. Apparently it means to slowly plough down the slope i.e. by making a V with your skis – the way one is supposed to stop. Anyways, I messed up this part – fell twice doing this, and the instructor had to babysit me through this. Yeah. Sucks. In either case the instructor was a dedicated chap, with infinite patience. And we both agreed that I was by far the worst student he ever had!

I wish I could find an easy and not crowded slope to practice the slow decent. I wish. I wish. Unless I can buy my own private slope***. Sigh. Who ever said skiing is easy. I want my money back! Hmmm… nah… I think will go again and get it right this time. I must learn to stop. Aarrggghhhh.

Anyways, coming to the bright 0-watt incident. On my way back to Titisee from Feldberg-Barenthal, the train was running late, and I had to change trains at Titisee towards Nuestadt. At Titisee, as I got off the train, I heard some announcement – pretty garbled in my defense. I understood that the train headed towards Nuestadt was about to leave from platform 3, so I ran towards platform number 3 and jumped into the train hardly 10 seconds before it started moving (without reading the signage displayed prominently besides the dorr). Five minutes later I realized we were headed back towards Barenthal! What a freaking dufus man! I could do nothing but laugh at myself.

So I had to wait for an extra hour at Barenthal for the next train to Titisee. And on a cold evening, like the one last sunday, waiting at an open railway station can be a lot of fun****. It takes a smart guy to do that. I give myself that much :)

* or it felt like that, I am sure I was slower than I imagine

** tendency to piss cops off, where did this come from?

*** Little evil red Satan sitting on my shoulder whispers into my ears in a slow hellish drawl, “Dream on brother. Dream on. Muhuhahahahahahahahaha”

**** Prescribed dose of sarcasm!! Yippee!!

-- The end --

Smo(S)kiingggg, somebody stop me!

Dusseldorf

When work takes you to a new place for only a day and a half, there is nothing much that you can do. Nothing more than strolling in the city by night, and clicking some random photographs. Which is what I did at Dusseldorf.

The film museum

The long bar (?)

There are a few point to note, The Lonely Planet Guide – Europe edition suggests that one must try the Altbier (or old beer) at a very notable place, so crowded, that it is easier for the waiter(es) to carry around  a tray full of beer glasses (please note, i use the word glasses) and simply replace the ones which they find empty. Sadly, for me, this fabled den of alcohol remained elusive. But, what I did find, was a very helpful bartenderess (does that word even exist?) in a near desolate old fashioned pub. The lighting was dark, the furniture so worn out that it looked like a relic from the American Wild West, and funky posters all around with a total of 6 people drinking Altbier. It was indeed a very early exit for me. Not before I asked the (now pretty) bartenderess, directions to the fabled Hafen (i.e. Port area.) The “Long Bar” stretch lives up to its name, with a million bars dotting the whole street.

The Dusseldorf tower

The Hafen was another place recommended by the Lonely Planet, so I had to do it. Talk about boring people. More specifically, the Lonely Planet recommends visiting the Dusseldorf Tower. As I was meandering along the general direction suggested by the (now distant but still pretty) bartenderess, I spotted a man with a walky-talky. Curiosity got the better of me, and I got into my routine. So I approached the bespectacled man.

“Entschudligung,  Wei komme ich bei der/das/die ganz grosses tower in Dusseldorf?”, I asked, even I could clearly spot it. Followed by a quick, “Sprechen Sie English?” At which he quickly took offence, “Of course! You can talk to me in English” he replied. The water vapor escaping his mouth through the cold 10’o clock night condensed on the outside of his glass, while he pointed out the clearly visible and only candidate for the Dusseldorf tower. He then asked me, “So, where do you come from?”

I was now bordering on German, it is a switch that I cannot turn off and on as will. Mostly because it takes so much effort to turn it on ;) But, “India” managed to tumble out before the man could make up his mind on how retarded I must be. “I thought so”, he said, and his eyes lit up. I thought, “Oh no! Not another Osho moron!”, but before I could completely connect the dots, he said, “I used to work for an Indian company - Engineering Export Council of India”

The thought train quickly switched to a “Holy-cock-a-moly” mode, and I was like “Respect man! respect!”. Then he went into a bit of the details, apparently he was part of three man show in Germany, which canvassed for Indian companies in Europe. Helping them with marketing, sourcing, and setting up booths at trade shows. Kinda reminded of what Grate-Dane was doing for his country in India. Then he asked, “Have you heard of HAM?”

Now HAM was a minor glitch in my otherwise smooth career as a student. I was interested. Deeply. However I am severely tone deaf, i.e., I couldn’t (even with a gun put to my head) differentiate between a dot and a dash in Morse. I had failed my HAM exam. Twice. I received “The Zebra and the monkey went up the tree, to fetch a pile of ice cold cotton candy…”, while the examiner had transmitted, “Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge…” So, well, me and HAM were good old buddies.

Anyway, he updated me on the latest in HAM technology – internet repeaters, and commented on the oldest problem ever – flaky radio reception. So apparently he receives the signal at near one specific lamp post (along the river Rhine), and doesn’t at the adjacent ones. Talk about multi path fading huh?

View from the observation deck

Anyways, the gentleman recommended the trip up the Dusseldorf tower, and that coupled with the excellent weather we were having in Dusseldorf, it was a no brainer that the tower top would be a good place to shoot the city. However, one must factor in the reflective glass, which some one else did not do, or did not think of :S

The observation balcony is 168 meters from the base, and it elevator travels at a top speed of 4 m/s. Impressively fast. And the ear actually pops as one rides up or rides down. The view from the top, on a cloudless, fogless night, like the night I visited is incredible. For as far as you can see, you can see a sea of light, giving you a hint as to how big the city really is. The ride up costs 3.60 euros. And if you can visit during the day, fogless, cloudless, etc etc, the elevator guy informed me that you can actually see the Dom at Colone. Impressive. Apparently it gets even better during the firework show, which takes place some time in May.

The city’s public transport system has enough and more connections and at suitable times too. It costs about 5.60 euros for the whole day.

The Carnival starts tomorrow in Dusseldorf, but I will not be there, since I am already back home in Konstanz! Crap! But, hey, we have a Carnival here too… muhuhahahaha…

Dusseldorf

Book Review: The diary of an unreasonable man - “Madhav Mathur”

Ever wondered, “Now what the fuck am I going to do?” while staring blankly at your work station?

Did your boss ever tell you, “… I somehow get the impression that you’re not… happy”, and you wanted to flip him the middle finger? (Hey, that happened to me a few years back!)

Have you written shit loads of “intelligent stories” which never made it to the printing press*?

How many times has someone told you, “.. maybe you’ve done something that would lend a greater degree of credibility to your theories and ideas.” and you’ve wondered, “What the fuck?”

And this one was the freaky statement - “You hit the ultimate stage of this cycle after a few years of work, when you’re a few years away from thirty. That’s when you become a cynic, a pseudo-pacifist, not easily moved, not affected by anyone but yourself, looking out for no one else but yourself”. Freaky!

Doesn’t that sound a lot like you? Hehe! It is as if Madhav Mathur has drilled a hole to the very bottom of our soul, painstakingly searched for that mostly elusive inner core, extracted it with the clarity of a gypsy reading from a crystal ball, and then with carefully used words painted a picture more vivid than reality itself.

The book has too many deja-vu moments, to be not true. It takes effort to convince yourself that this is a work of fiction. Pure fiction. Nothing more. A lot of effort. And no, how much ever you think he is talking about you, he is still not talking about you, because hey, you are not an unreasonable man. You only wished you could do what Mr. Anarchist does ;) Only wish.

And the Ayn Rand references, yappa, can't believe that so many people actually swallow that bull crap written by this demented woman so deep that it actually effects their inner soul**. This book makes references to Ms Rand, and after that one does get a feeling that it is quite Foutainheadish, but I am willing to overlook that discrepancy. I loved his Idea of the Anarchists of Mumbai! I hope the man does not stop writing. Ever. The ending is a bit filmy, but hey, it IS fiction.

* Most of what I write borders on unconnected, and occasionally, caustic drivel and I wouldn't expect anyone to read what I write anyway. So, this doesn't apply to me.

**Unconnected caustic drivel warning. Was making a generic observation, not finger pointing or anything.

Book Review: The diary of an unreasonable man - “Madhav Mathur”

Kochi: by night

What do Kochi and Bangalore have in common? Other than the same country, mallu population, etc etc? Think maadi.

Anyhoo, have you played Wolfeinstien 3D? That one kickass game which ruined many a summer day when we were kids? Well if you have played and remember the UI, with BJ running around the claustrophobic labyrinth in a Nazi encampment in search of Ammo, Medicine and one big bad ass to kill. Remember? Remember? Freak man, that could as well have been Old Kochi. These guys (at ID software, which i am told no longer exists by that name, god bless their bank accounts) were surely sitting in Old Kochi when they conceptualized the UI. Narrow walled roads, about one and a half car’s width across (yes width, not length) snake around the city in a elaborate pattern ensuring that you travel 10 kms by road to be displaced by only 1km. No footpath. None. Wall – Road – Wall. That's it. Apparently people don’t need to walk in Kochi. While we are on the topic, let me not forget to mention the odd telephone or electricity pole planted in the middle of the road :) Yes, it is not just Subsaharan Africa (or Bangalore) which can lay claim to ingenious road widening/narrowing projects worthy of an Ig Nobel prize.

So, did you guess already? The freaking Traffic is a nightmare! Serious competition to Bangalore. In everything. Traffic, infrastructure, Software companies, underwear ads and the insane number of cubbyholed malls fueling consumer excess. Serious competition. Or maybe, just maybe, we guys were always at the wrong place at the wrong time?

But you know what? Even in the middle of all the madness there are pockets of serenity and bliss. Like the Kochi port. Gardens line the M.G. Road area, from where you can see the cargo ships berthing at the port. Here are few photos of Kochi by night. The first two are of the Kochi Port. In the second photo the tiny building to the left is the Taj. The last one was shot from the roof top of a friend’s house.

And you know what? The food is freaking amazing :) The Puttum Kadalayum is to be eaten. The Appam Stew (Not to be mistaken for Appam Chuthiya, who apparently also stays here), the Idiappam. Finger licking good. Daimn, my mouth is watering already.

Oh ya, don’t forget the Chinese fishing nets :)

Kochi: by night

Alappuzha and its backwaters

First of all, it is not pronounced the way you’d imagine it to be. That is correct, is it not Ah-la-poo-sa. It is Aha-la-poo-rla, or some such weird tongue contorting thing. Ask Shenoy, and he’ll tell you the tongue gymnastics we had to perform to ask for directions. First we used Ah-la-poo-sa, and all we got were blank looks, and then we used the Marathi equivalent of la, rolling tongue and everything, and all we received were bouts of laughter, and then if the askee could tear himself away from LHFAO (Laughing his freaking ass off), then we’d be pointed along in the right direction. I can now sympathize with the British fellas for choosing to call this place Alleppey.

After two hours of providing entertainment to the locals, we found ourselves on a bridge. Yeah, right, not just any bridge, but a bridge in the town of Alappuzha. Believe me, it was the most disappointing sight of my life (given that my life is akin to a goldfish, 5 second memory and everything, that statement is no surprise). I had expectations of this place man. Expectations. Close your eyes and imagine “Houseboat + Kerala”. Does it involve water ways clogged with water hyacinth? Stinking of shit? Dingy motor boats, without a house boat in sight? Wild pigs running around? It doesn’t, now does it? Well, that is exactly what we got. I was in half a mind to turn around and go away and drown myself in the Arabian Sea (G.O.L.D.F.I.S.H.), but then wiser counsel prevailed and we parked the car near the tourist office to fish around for a suitable boat.

The tourist office informed us that the only way to traverse the waterways is to hire a motorboat. Available for only Rs.500 per hour. And that it would take us about 3 hours to visit the village to Kuttanad and back. According to lonely planet, the revered – I am only for idiotic f*cking clueless travelers – guide book, it was some sort of cultural village to be seen. Those of you who know me, also know that I religiously follow this book, even though it ALWAYS falls way short of expectation. But, but, Katpad it was for us, and we haggled around and found a PINK, yes PINK, boat for Rs 2000 for a 4 hour trip around the backwaters.

With a disguised disappointed look, I got into the boat and resigned myself to 4 four hours of stink, water hyacinth, and boredom. But then, like the proverbial (really? which proverb?) goldfish, in about 2 minutes i had my camera out and shooting at will. I shot the pig, I shot the dilapidated boat, I shot the car on the road, I shot the sheriff… err… no. But you get the picture. Shenoy and me were commenting - “So, this is how they put chuna to the foreign tourists”. Falsers words had not entirely tumbled out of our blasphemous mouths, that lo, behold we were in the real backwaters. Houseboats. Gazzilions of them. In mind blowingly beautiful settings. Even after a month of this revelation, I find it particularly difficult to write about that moment. I think “I was bowled over” is a gross understatement.

There were so many of these house boats, and not one was available to us! It was apparently the tourist season. Not too hot, not too humid, and hardly any rains, so all in all perfect weather to hole up in one of these house boats and err… well.. do nothing. Absolutely nothing. What bliss (sigh)

The going rate for one of these boats was Rs 10000 a night. I know, WTF? But well, I think we got the inflated prices, perhaps haggling can get it down. A bit. According to Reju, our friendly boatsman, it costs upto Rs 10,00,000 to build one of these houseboats. The are all equipped with a kitchen, library, a lounge, and all modern gadgets that you’d really have wanted to leave behind on a vacation. Yeah, like who would want to see the idiot box on a vacation? Huh? Apparently, a lot of people (Not everybody is like you Mr. Me). These boats are equipped with DTH service and big ass plasma Televisions. No kidding. Check out the guy with the My-toddy-strongest pose ;)

We, were still reeling from the after effects of the colossal house boats (colossal is err… well… you know… exaggeration) when we meandered into this section of the backwaters, where there was no one but us. The homes were so beautiful. But with only waterways connecting them. If in the urban setting a family has two cars, one for the husband and one for the wife, then here they just substitute that with boats. These guys live off the water. Literally.

I particularly was blown away by the house on the extreme left.It looked like it was inspired by Laurie Baker, and to be honest, it is quite similar to the fantasy home that i have built for myself in my head.

For about an hour and a half we were just meandering the backwaters, soaking in the scenery, the greenery, the water, the little fishes in the water, the ducks, the billions of ducks, the different methods of fishing, and then a freaking phone rang. It was Reju. Our enterprising boatsman, had a tie up with this little restaurant in the middle of the backwaters, where lunch was awaiting us. So he brings in the fish (i.e. us) and they cook it (i.e. fleece us). Wow.

Anyway, hungry we were, so we agreed to lunch. The fish was fresh, straight from the river. The owner seemed a bit disappointed that I was a vegi. But I must agree on one point – it was finger licking good. It wasn’t too heavy on the pocket either – Rs 400 for three people and plate of shrimp pepper fry or something.

After the finger licking good lunch, we headed back to Alappuzha, but hey.. we didn’t need that extra hour, so we forced Reju to give us an extended tour of the Vembanad lake :) Boy, this lake is huge. Colossal (no exaggeration this time!)

And we also learnt an important lesson. You can use the State transport ferry service to do the same route, well almost the same route, for a little under Rs 60 per head :) I like it when I am told such things! On the whole, I’d say it was the highlight of the trip to Kerala. These four hours were by far the best. Not that the rest of the trip was crappy or anything, yet – these were the backwaters man! Lazing on a boat. Now if only I got to see the Nehru Cup like that lucky pig Googie got to see ;)

P.S. Whatever on earth happened to the Kuttanad thingy? Even we forgot :)

Alappuzha and its backwaters

Zurich

After several months of lost opportunity and after 7 transits and a day spent at its zoo, I finally got to eat authentic classic Swiss Fondue and Raclette... oh yes, and also spend an entire night in Zürich last weekend. My cousin, the same one I was trying to call in the Heathrow incident, was visiting Zürich with his friend, so it was quite logical that I got my fat ass to Zürich :)

If you have seen the Bangalore International Airport, then you have pretty much know what to expect at the Zürich Airport. Zürich Airport is part of the consortium running BIAL. And like namma bengaluru airport the public transport connectivity from Zürich Airport to the city is funkastic. You have a choice of the train (SBB), which will take you to the main railway station (no prizes for guessing! its called Zürich Haputbhanhof) for 6 CHF, or the tram line number 10 which will also get you to the main railway station in a few extra minutes. You can also buy a 24 hrs pass for 8 CHF. Pssst... I did not know this.

Anyways, a trip to the information center at the main railway station is worth the 10 odd calories spent. You can find out just about every thing you need to know for your short visit from the friendly people manning (O.K. Womanning) the center. We spotted a brochure advertising an interesting city walk here – The Ghost walk of Zurich. You are promised goosebumps and hair raising stories. Alas it was only available in spring or fall. It is something I would like to try the next time I am in Zürich.

By the time we guys reached Zürich it was 6 pm in the evening. Time for dinner you'd say huh, but we were a bit full with some junk food we had had, a little stroll in the city was in order to build up an appetite. So, we walked around the city, nearly froze in temperatures of below -4°C; soaked in the magnificent and charming sights of a city by night, which European cities seem so adept at exuding; and occasionally broke our zombie state walk to click some photographs.

What you see above is a view of the river Limmat, with the Zürich main railway station in the left edge and the Zürich Museum of something something. There are way too many museums to remember in this city!

The above is a view of the Grossmunster (i.e. big church) across the river Limmat.

The above the view of the city library (Zentralbibliothek)

And this is the view of the Kantonsrat (or Canton advice?? must be some sarkari office)

Oh well, so we were semi frozen, and had built up an appetite, so we headed to the world famous in Zürich restaurant for Original Swiss Fondue and raclette – Restaurant Swiss Chuchi. A cloud of aromatic cheese overwhelms the vicinity of the restaurant, so you cannot miss it. Apparently this is some sort of dandy place where folks need to make a reservation, so the waiter gave us some serious attitude for not making one in advance and warned us that nothing was available until 10.30 in the night. But Fondue we wanted, so we put our names on the list and made our way to the bar with the propeller. I remembered this place on the corner of Zähringerplatz from a previous trip.

It really was funky visiting this place with my cousin (a PhD) his two friends, both PhDs. hehe. It sure was fun. Oh, btw, for all the gay people out there, Zurich has a mind boggling number of gay bars and pubs, and not to mention exotic dance bars (you know what I euphemistically mean)

Anyhoo, the food at the Swiss Chuchi was not all that great. First they force you to buy one dish per person (??), first time i ever saw that on a menu by the way, and then the service was.. hmmm.. well.. flaky at best. I think it was because we got a waiter from the neighbourhood of our motherland, who was intent on getting his revenge for an imaginary crime we had committed by feeding us some “desi” Reisling. Yes, he said - “Original Desi”. I am no wine expert, but I have my doubts about “Original desi” ;)

Now, I was a 110% certain that we had trains every hour to Konstanz, even at night. Before someone gets all ecstatic, no. That is far, far, far away from the truth. The last train is at 1, there is another at 3 to Kreuzlingen, and the first train in the morning is at 6am. Or so the oracle of the TV schedule bespoke. Crap! so I had to spend the night at Zurich. God bless the poor souls\ of my cousins friend, for having given shelter to an almost homeless guy that night :P

Anyways, the next morning, we had a nice stroll near the Zurich lake; got aquainted with the ka-ka-ka-kawah-ing gulls; and then walked up to the Grossmunster for a splendid view of the whole city.

A hazy morning at the Zurich lake.

It costs 4 CHF to climb up the 70 meters and 187 steps up to see this view. Unfortunately for us, it was a rather hazy morning, but not too hazy :)

We spent the rest of the afternoon lazing around the city buying some swiss army knives at Teddy's souvenir shop, and in the evening we made our way to Sihl city and to Vapiano’s for a super duper dinner. I realized later that Vapiano’s is a franchise operation, but the setting was spectacular, the food was good, and light on the wallet by Zurich standards. The most interesting part of the setting was the bonsai tree around which we ate. We could garnish the dish with fresh mint, basilikum, petersilie straight from the bonsai garden.

P.S. And then I took the 8.30pm train home ;)

P.P.S. The seeds of a new adventure have been sown - The Santiago de Compostella. Will I do it? Won't I do it? Will it be like the millions of other plans that i make? Muhuhahahaha....

P.P.P.S Did you notice that every shop has a website????

Zurich

One life to Ride: Book review

Have you ever ridden a RE motorcycle from Manali to Leh? Are looking for a quick trip down memory lane? Have you not ridden in a while? Then “One life to ride” by Ajit Harisinghani will compel you to look at your old photographs or even better - clean the dust off your bike, top up the engine oil and hit the road again.

The book itself is void of any photographs, yet as one reads, the characters and the landscape jump out of the book with remarkable clarity. One is magically transported to the hills, and old memories of that one kickass ride flood the mind...

This book is not just about an old guy riding a bullet to the hills. You've probably heard those stories a large number of times. This book is also about what goes on in the author's head as he rides across India. It is a cheerful collection of short stories, a few not related to the cross Indian ride, but all well within context.

I made the mistake of reading this book on a flight taking me away from India. Why did I ever have to leave, when I could have rather been in Ladakh? The hills, the friendly people, the Indus river, the crazy nallahs, the glaciers, the ever present threat of High Altitude Mountain Sickness, the feeling of peace, utter peace. Why? Sallaaa paapi pet #$%^&*@

Statutory warning: If you are not a motorcycle travel enthusiast as the author is, or as I fancy myself to be, then this book may just about make you one :)

http://www.onelifetoride.com/index.html

One life to Ride: Book review

My lucky day - Thank you Heathrow, and BA ground staff

So, apparently I am supposed to be the world's luckiest man. Why? Ha ha. First I must let you know that I am probably the world's most stupid man first and then maybe today was my lucky day.

Background info: I was flying from Bangalore to Zurich via London. My cousin lives in London, and he had just earned his PhD, so I thought I'd save some cash by calling him from London rather than from Konstanz.

I deposited 2 pounds in a payphone and dialed my cousin's number. Absent minded me also deposited the wallet on the payphone. As luck would have it, my cuz was unreachable on phone. Disappointed I walked away. Wait. Rewind a bit. There was also that wallet on the phone. Yes. But I just walked away. The wallet contained my EC card – i.e. direct access to all my money; the walled also contained my rail pass, Swiss francs for my ticket to germany, my insurance card and god alone knows what else.

I walked across the terminal found a secluded spot, fired up the laptop, and started writing about “One life to ride”. That done, I felt thirsty. Don't ask why. To quench the thirst I decided to gulp some liquid, then as I stood in queue to buy a hot chocolate, I realized that I was missing something. Yeah. Right. Ich bin eine tooblight!

Then started my crazed run through Heathrow airport in search of the wallet, and when that turned to be a no show, for the security people. One directed me to another and then to another, and then finally one man directed me to the team lead of security at Terminal 5. I spoke to the man, and he was like, “So you left it on the phone?” with a distinct tone of incredulity. I confessed my stupidity, at which point he delicately told me not to get my hopes up. “In all probability it is all gone by now”, he said, a point which was already bouncing around wildly in my head.

He did give me two numbers and told me that the cops would not register a case for two days, which is the window they adhere to in the case of stupid people losing their belongings. As usual I kept laughing. At my own stupidity.

I thought I'd try the lost and found department right away. I asked for directions at the currency exchange counter. On hearing my situation they advised me to get in touch with the customer service. The customer service desk was maned by a man in his late twenties, blond spiked hair and the attitude of a teenager not bothered about the rest of the world. He directed me to the other customer service counter, where I saw a very familiar looking object on the desk.

This desk was manned, errr womanned by three blond middle aged ladies. And they were jubilant to find me! “What was in it?”, one asked, while another chimed in, “Can you show us your passport?” followed by “I think we got him! We were just about to page you, you must be the luckiest man on earth today.”

I was so relieved, that I kept mumbling my inadequate “thank you”'s like a stuck record.

“It was just luck, we were walking by on our break and someone handed this to us. You truly are a very lucky man”, said one of the kind ladies. What are the chances of that happening? Daimn.

Thank you unknown good Samaritan. Thank you wonderful ladies at the BA customer service. Sometimes one does feel quite lucky and very very stupid at the same time too.

B.T.W. The wallet also contained two expired and non existent credit cards – a decoy method some one once advised me about :)

My lucky day - Thank you Heathrow, and BA ground staff

Spicy tales from Junagadh

I have always thought of the Nawab of Junagadh in rather unfavorable terms, because of what I learned in my high school history classes. According to the present day locals of Junagadh my misgivings are misplaced. Here are two very interesting stories about the Nawab narrated to me by the locals.

For a while, just skip back to high school and more specifically to the history classes dealing with Indian independence. Recall that at independence, there were 400 odd princely states. Of these more than 300 were in Gujrat. All the princely states had the freedom to remain independent or join Indian or Pakistan. Out of the 300 in Gujrat, only one was a troublesome state, which refused to join the Indian Union. That is Junagadh. The Nawab of Gujrat was Muslim and he wanted to join Pakistan, but the majority population of Junagadh was Hindu and they wanted to join India. Things untangled itself and eventually Junagadh joined the Indian Union.

Now, this is the account of events which the people of Junagadh gave. The Nawab of Junagadh was a very good man. He was a just ruler, forward thinking, implemented several developmental projects etc etc. (But I think the "good" was used by my source because of the following..) Even though he was Muslim, he did not force his religion on his subjects. On the contrary, he made sure that the Hindu places of worship were protected, sufficiently funded. He even ordered that mosques be kept out of the Girnar hills, given that these hills are sacred to the Hindus. The Dewan, or prime minister, of this Nawab was a man of questionable morals and ambitions. The Dewan's progeny would later go on to rule Pakistan. Anyway, he instigated the Nawab to join Pakistan, so the Nawab signed the declaration to join Pakistan. What was signed was signed, so Junagadh was all set to join the Union of Pakistan, but then the citizens of Junagadh were appalled at the Nawab's decision. At this point, there was nothing much that India, or Sardar Patel could do. The people of Junagadh were on their own. So they formed a militia, and fought the Nawab's forces. After three months of revolt they overthrew the Nawab's forces, and installed a new King – Mr Samaldas Gandhi. Mr Gandhi, promptly singed a declaration joining the Union of India. And that is how Junagadh became a part of India. Quite an interesting tale, and something which even the source of eternal truth (Wikipedia) seems to partially corroborate.

Illustration 1: Bahauddin Arts and Science College

The Nawab's interesting life does not stop there. According to folk lore (or “ facts”), Girnar hills is considered to be the abode of holy men. Each having meditated enough to have visions and interactions with the meta-physical world. So, once upon a time, a long long time ago, there lived a widow in Junagadh. She had two young kids – a girl and a boy. She would go into the Girnar forest every day to collect firewood. She would sell this firewood and with that money, she would buy food for her children. It was a hand and mouth existence for her family.

One day as she was returning from the forest with her stash of firewood, a yogi met her on the forest trail. He needed some firewood, so he asked her if she could give him some. She gave the yogi all her firewood, without even thinking of how she would feed her children that day. The yogi was impressed. It was a test, which the widow had passed, and so the yogi blessed the widow and said – you will one day become royalty. A lot many years later the Nawab of Junagad was passing by the village of the widow and chanced upon her daughter. The daughter had grown up to be a beautiful lass – one imagines with a hour glass figure, a face to die for, and a smile that could light up a dark room. The Nawab made her his queen. So the widow became the queen mother, and the brother became the Vazir. (I am not sure if this is the same Vazir who is supposed to have “ poisoned” the Nawab's mind to join Pakistan).

Thanks to the abject poverty in which the new Queen and Vazir had grown up, school was luxury their mother could ill afford. The Vazir, though uneducated, was a worldly wise man and knew the importance of good education, so one of the first things he did was to start an arts and science college in Junagadh. That college is today known by his name – Bahauddin Arts and Science college. Further, legend has it that, during the design of the college, the Vazir wanted a pillar less auditorium, and apparently no architect (i.e. British architect) could come up with a viable design. A local carpenter eventually came up with an innovative slotted and pillar less design which keeps the structure erect even today, even withstanding the several earthquakes which have rocked the region.

A word of caution – these are uncorroborated stories, i.e. no documentary proof. But I kinda sorta see the Nawab of Junagadh in a different and slightly more kinder shade of light than I did before.

Spicy tales from Junagadh

Ahmadabad – An evening spent at the Kankaria lake

The first impression of Ahmadabad was that of a modern city with wide roads and low traffic density despite a practically non-existent public transport system. For a person coming from Bangalore or Cochin, this is a welcome relief. Not the poor public transport system, but the low traffic density.

The next thing which struck me as different from Bangalore, is the presence of a river (Yeah, I know - tubelight bugger wonlee). Ahmadabad is built on the banks of the river Sabarmati. The same river which lent its name to the iconic Sabarmati Ashram of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. A thermal power plant provides uninterrupted good quality power to the city. The only glitch – the power plant is well within the city limits. How much of the fog / smog problems of Ahmadabad can be attributed to this proximity is anyone's guess.

Architecturally, I would rate Ahmadabad as several notches higher than Bangalore or Cochin. Not that I am any expert on the matter, but to my untrained eyes, the buildings appear aesthetic. I saw quite a few ceramic mosaic art on the underpasses and building walls. Perhaps, these appeal to my sensibilities more than some crude works of art painted on the Bangalore walls, not to mention the jarring building colors apparently recommended by Vastu-Pasthu gurus. Maybe one can thank the National Institute of Design for the aesthetic city?

While Bangalore has been trying to build multi storied roads – like the elevated flyover, and the sometimes above ground metro and sometimes below ground metro, Ahmadabad has quietly implemented a rapid transport system – a dedicated bus corridor where only buses can ply. This is called the Bus Rapid Transport system, abbreviated as BRTS. The BRTS to me looks like a dedicated ring road for Buses. I did not travel by this system, so I am not aware of the frequency of service. But they do not have a service to the airport, if that is what you want to know.

The Kankaria lake is a good place to spend the evening if one also lugs along a pair of good ear plugs. Not that the people are noisy. The authorities in charge of the lake have installed speakers every 10 meters along the shore, which belts out “music”. Maybe they are vehicles for a hidden subconscious message to be transmitted by a devious government. Maybe the radio station paid a copious sum to the renovation project. Every single light bulb at the lake seems to be paid for by Max New York Life Insurance. Or so one would assume when one sees that name glowing from every light. Nevertheless, the lake is a good place to spend a lazy evening. The musical fountain and laser show is worth the extra 10 rupees. Also, do not forget to eat the corn samosa here.

Hey, I almost forgot to mention the lack of potholes on the city roads :)

Ahmadabad – An evening spent at the Kankaria lake

Ramnagar hills - Sholay

Today / Yesterday we've had the smallest announce ride group in a long while. There were 6 main listers - KD, Goop, Toothpick, Rajeev, ADK and KML; and 1 newbie - Arvind T.
KD and Prakash Pai were going towards Ramanagar for the Jan 10th announce ride, and the Jan 3rd announce ride guys were heading towards Kunigal, Nagamanagala, Huliyurdurga and Ramanagar as per the "plan". We were supposed to start at 6 am so we waited till 6.35 am. But there were only 6 bikes. So, the two rides merged into one :)

A cold, misty morning and beltabale roads greeted us once we crossed the NICE ring road. If any of us hadn't woken up, then the short twists, curves, banks and the odd psycho bus drivers made sure we had (woken up). I hadn't ridden a motorcycle in almost 10 months (not counting the last two weeks), so this was joy. The Mysore road trip a couple of days back was nowhere near as good. The roads were good and the "old bridge" was not as scenic as it felt a few years back, perhaps why the point - Mr. Broadband, just kept going. Which ment we missed the first regroup point.

So, the new first regroup point was a chai stop a few kilometers before Magadi. A familiar looking Thunderbird went past, with the rider looking here, and there and front and back, but completely ignoring the line of 5 bullets. We were now 5, because Prakash Pai's ride was not behaving itself, so he pulled out a few kilometers after we started. We waved, yelled and whislted, but this guy turned off towards Savandurga and went off. Shortly, another Thunderbird rolled in. It was tooth pick. After another round of Chai, an aqua marine classic joined the party - ADK.

We stopped at the world famous in Kunigal breakfast point - Siddalingeshwara Tiffen Center for some finger licking good Thatay Idly, Vada, Pulao and Chai Kappee.
Then we proceeded towards Huliyurdurga fort on the same Bangalore Bypass route which we "discovered" for RM9. Some people.... errr one people, went back towards Kunigal instead. So we were waiting for a while near Huliyurdurga. Then we were playing around with ADK's new Classic, when this wrong turn macha appears.
The road from Huliyurdurga to somewere between Madur and Channapatana on the SH-17 is still good to ride, but a bit bumpy. A village lady was enthralled by the aqua marine Classic that she ran in front of it, ADK did the almost skidding and all thing.

30 odd kms later, Broadband, Arvind and I were having some Mazza and waiting for the rest of the guys at a roadside shack at the SH-17 junction. We were jabbering away in Kannada, which apparently impressed the shopkeeper. I know, WTF? We waited for a while, before wondering if something went wrong for the other guys. Apparently the overturned truck which we ignored caught the fancy of our motographing junta. Any way as the other junta arrive, a yellow Alto stopped by for its occupants to take a sutta break. Again the aqua marine Classic exercised its magnetic charm and pulled the PYT driving the Alto towards itself. The poor young thing kissed the silencer with her bare legs while possing for a snap. The pain she will be feeling right now... Sigh.

Rajeev P, the one who we have forgotten to nick, said he needed to download really really fast. Some where out of public view. So we rushed to the closest Highway Highspeed internet cafe with a clean download center, where the cache is flushed i.e. Cafe Coffee Day. So we sat in the AC. Rajeev P did the downloading and flushing (or so we presume) which is why he is now called Broadband ;)

From there we pushed off to Ramanagar in search of the famous Sholay hills. After a few Autorikshaw walla GPS consultations, we were in the right place. A guide, rather the only guide, was booked for next week. And then a few of us trekked up the Ramanagar hill.


Once we came down, Rajeev P a.k.a. Broadband, Goop and KD went off to KD's place for a chill beverage, while Arvind, Toothpick, ADK and I went off to Hotel Taj international and world famous in Ramanagar for Biryani - which btw we didn't get. The Vegis of the world have no hope in this cruel Biryani world. Crap.

After some hajjar Kerala Parotas we left the lunch place and proceeded towards Blr. We seldom crossed 70 kph after this point. Hehe. But we were not sleepy. No sir. Then we split at the University Gates. I was back home at 4.10 pm after 245 kms of riding in one day, and 380 steps up a hill. Boy it felt good.

Thanks guys for turning up for the announce ride and for clubbing the reccee ride with it too. I sure had fun.

Ramnagar hills - Sholay