Finding Homes For Ned and Kelly






In an attempt to redeem our bodies from the diet of rice, chili and oil, we would sometimes buy a load of fresh fruit and veges and cut them up for a great salad of cabbage, carrot, and pineapple . We would eat this vitamin mountain like a pair of wild, rabid vegans from a plastic bag off the ground at the roadside. We had eaten one of these fresh feasts on our final day and left the plastic bag of organic remains outside the doorway of our room to rot in the sun. Our room was at the local dementia home where we could stay for a few days while searching for two local recipients suitable for our two well traveled but still perfectly functional cycles. We woke in the morning to find a cloud of flies had formed over the fermenting remains of our salad and a pungent aroma was wafting across the grounds towards the innocent and senile elderly. In search of somewhere to dispose of it, my father (bless his soul), approached one of the crazy old men living in the home. The man took one look in the bag, reached in, pulled out an old rotten piece of pineapple, popped it in his mouth and walked off licking his fingers. Perhaps not the best way to dispose of it.

We advertised our cycles on the local TV station and soon had two polio stricken middle aged men phoning in. They were both reasonably poor with small stalls at the coast selling soft drinks and tobacco. They would benefit well from a cycle to help them travel independently too and from work and out to get supplies.

So it happened that on World Handicapped Day we formally handed over Ned and Kelly to Prakashan and Shaji. I was surprisingly moved, perhaps not too far from the point of tears as they climbed into their new machines, big smiles appearing on each of their faces.

Prakashan was naturally skilled at driving the cycle, so he was able to accompany me on the 15 km ride to deliver the cycles to the men's shops at the coast. Riding alongside this man was a special experience. At 45 years old, with baby sized legs but body builder arms, Prakashan was a positive minded go getter. Despite his condition, he had acquired a wife, two daughters and a simple thatch hut stall. "Going fast, going fast" he chanted all along our ride, and called out to each of his friends as we passed. To his dismay, they were more interested in me the white guy cycling behind him. He liked to ride smack bang in the middle of the road so that all of the buses had to swerve around him. Clearly he liked attention. At the beach he was in his element, crawling across the sand on all his hands and thick callused knees. He could move at surprising speed and bound over walls like an agile goat. I tried to crawl along beside him but was no match. He introduced us to his fishermen friends and was able to find a fresh fish to give us as the token of his thanks.


Shaji, the second recipient, was beaming when he first sat in his seat, but soon appeared to become a little depressed. This may have been after seeing that Prashakan's cycle had come with my old tyre pump still attached, while his had not. Thomas explained to me that these disabled people can develop mental problems and selfish natures due to their condition. Despite sharing the same disability and having their shops side by side, Prakashan and Shaji were not friends. Disabled people get used to having peoples attention. Perhaps jealousy was the issue as Prakashan was such an outgoing likable guy, he was likely to steal all of the local attention with his new machine. Never the less, Shaji shook my hand appreciatively once I delivered his cycle to him at his small shop.

I left feeling confident that Ned and Kelly, India's most well travelled hand powered tricycles were in good hands and would serve their new masters well until the end of their days. I hope that not only will the two men's lives be improved by the cycles but also that this day they gained some insight into selflessness and giving. I hope too that perhaps one day, Ned and Kelly will ride side by side once again along the carefree back roads of Kerala. Just as they did on those days together for me and my Father.

Life in a Coconut House

Day 50,51,52

We cycled a shameful 2 km around the corner to spend the night in an orthodox church and dine with the young student priests. They had a jovial dinner table with lots laughing, mostly we suspected at us. The service we witnessed in the morning was not so jovial. It was smile free, ritualistic, involved a dangerous volume of incense smoke and more curtain pulling than a pantomime. We cycled on to Calicut to receive a free meal and hotel with the help of Rotary, then on to Vellore stopping briefly to catch some video footage of the tricycle with a roadside elephant and it's driver.

Day 53

This could have been the final day of the 2000km journey. We decided the trip must end with the ocean as it was important we had a sense of destination. So we diverted our route to wash off 53 days of skin caked pollution. After stringing our tent fly between some palm trees, we were invited to spend the night instead with a family living on the beach in a house made nearly entirely from the coconut palm. The floor is sand, the frame bamboo and the walls and roof are cladded with neatly woven palm leaves. This is then tied together with rope spun from coconut shell fiber. The man of the house was a motor cycle mechanic living in this 2 room hut with his wife and two young sons. They had no furniture. Just a few mats, and cooking pots. This was a poor yet simple and uncluttered life. "I give you my house and you give me yours" my father proposed. He then asked the man if he would go out to buy 3 beers, one each for himself, my father and I. The man took my fathers 500 rupee note with delight, gave us each awkward hugs and took off on his motor bike to arrive back with 2 beers and no change. After the beer, I scaled my first coconut tree to drop 2 tender coconuts which we shared with the locals on the beach. The mans wife served us a very cheap meal of rice with a couple of drips of fish curry. The first family that appeared not to try and feed us into a state of obligatory giving. Perhaps they felt that an expression of their poverty was a better approach. The  night was spent on woven mats on the sand floor of the hut.



Day 54

I enjoyed a short game of cricket with the two boys before setting off inland towards our final destination, Kunnumkulam, where I had left off 53 days earlier.

For 53 days, Thomas had become a familiar voice on the other side of the phone, calling me more frequently than a paranoid mother. Having him call 3 times per day to ask, "How are things with you", came to feel a little smothering. Especially as I had to yell back "Things are fine with me" over roaring traffic. Each morning I would pull over to answer Thomas's call to pray. This was no brief roadside prayer, but a lengthy recital of my family tree. "We pray for Shasa's Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Step Mother, Step Father, Friends, Family, all of his near and dear ones.....". Although at times this communication felt a hindrance and frustrating, I knew, while I was alone on the road, it was really an umbilical chord for my sanity. What could have been a lonely haul of unrecognised endurance, was a journey with support and purpose, largely because of Thomas consistent interest in my well being and the many connections he planned for me along the way.

Then suddenly, 15km from our destination, Thomas unexpectedly appeared at the roadside. I immediately recognised his old Hero Honda motor cycle which he would painstakingly not allow above 60km per hour in hope for prolonging her lifespan, and his bright red helmet. It was a happy yet surreal reuniting, where 2000km strangely melted into the soil beneath a sturdy Kerala coconut palm. Into its roots and into its memory.

Thomas had orgonised an obscure yet hearty reception for us in Kunnumkulam, complete with media cameras and notable townsmen, plus a band of mentally handicapped children blowing horns and banging drums. "A band of Idiots" my father whispered not uncompassionately. Perhaps the local brass band was busy, but we much more appreciated this mob with their vacant stares and passionate cacophony. Speeches were made and gold and white sheets were placed over our shoulders as symbols of honor; a Keralite custom. Our distance was over. Now only one job was left before we could depart. To find two local recipients  to which we could personally donate our faithful tricycles.





Servant vultures and ceramic knickers

Day 47 (something went funny and my life extended by a few days, this day should now be correct)

We spent 2 nights in an old hillside concrete cottage in Gudalore with Jose and Asha, looking out towards the giant tea covered hills of Ooty. Jose was a 57 year old limping diabetic. He was the same age as my father yet spent all day sitting idle in his tiny battery shop waiting for what he expressed to be one customer per day. Meal times consisted of my father and I sitting alone at the the large wooden table while the man and wife did not join us for the meal but stood behind us, watching fervently like servant vultures until our plates were barren. Being their first foreign guests, perhaps they watched us with unashamed curiosity in how we found pleasure in their food, or diligence in assuring assuring we did not become unhappy should it happen that our plate became void of chapatis. "Try some of this", "One more of these". We were almost spoon fed. My father found this particularly unnerving. A steady stream of friends and neighbours kept arriving at the door to meet these western visitors. We took a day trip by bus up to the hill station town of Ooty to feel the cool air, wander through the botanical garden and hunt out a box of masala tea before bussing back to  Gudalore for another night of observed feeding with our hospitable hosts.

Day 48

We cycled on with many ups and downs through tea plantation hills. My mind saw them as a beautiful field of densely packed green warts. My fathers tortoise shell description is perhaps more pleasant. Our intended host, Thomas's sister, had to rush off to the hospital so we found a bus shelter for a cold rock hard attempt at sleep. Although rather inhospitable, it was reassuringly disinfected with urine and abundant in night time well wishers arriving on motor bikes, police rickshaws and buses to peer in at us.

Day 49

We sped dangerous and free over 12 km of steep down hill hair pin bends to reach the forested home/tropical fish farm of Babu, a relative of Thomas's but completely unrelated in terms of his alternative ideas. At his table we learnt about the ancient Indian philosophy of Vastu Shastra, a set of geometric rules for designing the home in order to ensure good fortune to its inhabitant; much like and Indian slant on feng shuey. These rules may have derived from logic though now appear rather superstitious.

The house must be a gridded quadrilateral
No corners can be cut
Each corner is assigned to a particular god.
The floor must slope down towards the north east where a clean water source should be located
By no means should the sewage tank be placed in the south west corner which is assigned as the entrance for the god of death. (This brings very bad luck. I guess the grim reaper is not deterred by a few feces.)

Babu seems to have spent a substantial amount of money modifying his home in order to amend some of the features conflicting with the laws of vastu shastra and swears that his luck improved thereafter.

He also introduced us to the technology of bioceramic socks. Not designed for a modern day Cinderella but intended to help people with arthritus, healing wounds and sickness. Each sock is covered in tiny ceramic tiles deriving from NASA space shuttle technology. They claim that these tiles can reflect body heat back into the body in the form of far infra red rays. These rays have just the right frequency to vibrate human body cells to promote heating, circulation, healing, weight loss and improvement of bodily functions. My small research leads me to beleive that maybe there is some science behind these spotty sockes and underwear. My father being a fan of obscure remedies, accepted a very old pair of Mrs Babu's spotty ceramic knickers to put to experimental test.

The 7 sisters and time in a mental home

Day 46

For 5 days I have been on the road with my father. His presence does not seem to have cramped my style and fortune of slipping past the hotels and tourist hustlers into the homes organisations and families that are the more genuine India. Watching my father on his cycle is a strange out of body experience. His arms were burning up on the first day and he was holding us back. But I am in no rush. We realised his cycle is actually a lot tougher to power and slower but can't work out why. So I am now riding his to balance out the speed. After our first night above a volunteer hospital we continued on to Mandya where rotary had organised a hotel room. In the evening we went out in search of a beer. My father is having a bad influence on me. I convinced him we must have it in the bar with the locals rather than locked away in our hotel room. They were friendly drunks at our table. A bus driver, building contractor and chemist, who gathered together each evening for a couple of brandy's to relax. They seemed amazed to see father and son sharing a beer together and said that in India, alcohol and family are kept separate. I tried to explain how French and Italians share wine together at the family dinner table with etiquette and respect as you might have for a hot curry and yet in these countries there seemed to be little problem with alcohol abuse. The bus driver insisted on buying our beers and paying a restaurant to serve us dinner. He then rolled off home on his motor bike rather tipsy to share not the alcohol but its influence with his children and wife who had cooked him dinner. The brandy did not seem to make him too stupid or angry, but we were unsure how much of his salary intended for his family it had just caused him to spent on us.

Day 47

We rode through Srirungaputna the old fort town on a river island to see the temple and dungeon used to hold British prisoners of war, then on to Mysore.


A rickshaw driver helped us to find a lodge. When I offered to buy him a coffee for his time he replied, "Well if you want to help me, let me take you to a number of shops." He gets 100 rupees commission for each shop he drops us in, even if we buy nothing.  We agreed and were taken that evening to watch incense sticks being made and receive an aromatherapy demonstration where the smelly oil guru intoxicated us with lotus oil massages on the temples, musk up the nose and a well rehearsed voice of euphoria. All of which still failed in seducing us into buying his expensive oils. We did give a little money for the relaxing demonstration though.

Day 48

The next morning we had a wiz around the ornately decorated Mysore Palace before being put in a car and taken to a further 3 shops. The car was to make us look richer and more likely to buy. After an hour and a half of faking interest in gaudy stitched wall hangings we convinced our driver to release us back to the cycles so we could continue on to Nanjunguru before dark. Here every lodge seemed to be full, but asking for help at a catholic church proved very fruitful. We were directed to a convent to spend the night with the 7 sisters and their band of 62 mentally handicapped which they had plucked of the streets to care for.


Day 49

We observed convent life. Most of the handicapped inhabitants could not speak, but wandered around the grounds in a state of contented unawareness. Some lead calves on ropes, others helped to move wood, and the rest dozed in obscure locations like hidden Easter eggs, none seeming to interact or show awareness of the other inhabitants around them. They all had their quirky traits, sister Hillary told us. One liked to wear only red, one like to gift people with stones he had picked off the road, and another would often make running escapes to the tea stall across the road to snatch an unassuming tea drinkers glass to fuel his addiction. It was inspiring to see the courage and devotion of these sisters and the improvement they had made in the quality of these discarded peoples lives. We witnessed them enjoying a lunch donated by a local man as a way to celebrate his wedding anniversary  then took off to Gundulpet to spend the night in a dormitory with snoring truck drivers.




Day 50

An early start got us to the Bandipur tiger sanctuary by 8:30 am. We were told it would be dangerous to travel through on our cycles so flagged down a truck and were soon cruising through the jungle holding our cycles down on top of a giant bed or rice and spotting for wildlife. We saw deer and peacocks but no elephants and tigers as promised  Once safely on the other side of the sanctuary we lowered our cycles down and continued on the traditional way to Gudalore to spend the evening with Thomas's friend Jose, a battery salesman and his wife Asha.


Loved from the begining

Day 36 to 41

I spent 5 days with this friendly four storey family living in a Bangalore city apartment with the parents on the bottom flat and each adult child with their family on their own floor above them. The epitome of the Indian philosophy of keeping the family close together. With little more effort than a friendly smile, it seems I was loved from the beginning. For no other reason perhaps than that I was a novelty white dolly for the women to play with. The old mother and her daughter were adamant to cut my hair, die it black, smother it in coconut oil, send me out to buy clothes that weren't covered in cycle chain oil or ripped to shreds, force feed me chapattis until my stomach swelled to the size of a healthy pampered Indian male, sit me out in the sun until me skin turned black then marry me off to a nurturing Indian woman.  After one day of fending off their aggressive feeding habits, "One more chapati?", "Little rice?", I set off to find the infantry hotel to meet my father who had arrived late the previous night from the airport to serve as my new companion and camera man. After 18 months apart we reunited with timeless ease in this foreign environment. I was a little concerned to hear he had payed $170 US for a five minute taxi fair but led him out into the wilds of Bangalore for a 5km walk and 101 on Indian street warfare until we reached my Bangalore adopted family. As to me they welcomed him unconditionally to their home where they served and befriended us for the next 4 days. We were taken to Mama Sharda's Roman Catholic church service where it appeared Jesus was perhaps just an addition to the vast family of Hindu gods with his own plaster figurine to be touched and kissed in routine devotion. Sharda's husband was Hindu but the family shine had a space reserved for a photo of Jesus who was adorned in flowers each morning along with Rama and her 6 arms. When I asked Sharder what was most important in her life she responded with "To cook, sleep and pray. To live for my purpose"."So If I don't eat your meal does that mean your purpose is lost". "Yes". This explained the utter expression of emptiness when my father and I accepted budgie sized portions or her kitchen efforts in comparison to her husband who had had 43 years of marriage to allow his belly to stretch. We were taken to a christian Indian wedding. Joining the que with 1000 family members to shake the bride and grooms hands, eat the free meal of chicken biriani and file out the door on the other side, my father and I felt like blatant wedding crashers in this drive through stile wedding. We had another day to visit the country village home of Sharda's husband where he gave us a tour of his small comercial garden producing coconuts, and some breed of oranges that we honestly the size of basket balls.



We played with the children, drank beer responsibly with the men, accepted their boundless help in getting my fathers tricycle ordered and prepared then set off early towards Mysore.

I was one and now we are two. My cycle Ned and his new girl friend Kelly. Father and son. A vetran 3 wheeled explored and his fresh camera man. A couple of neurophen and a can of coke got my father through day 1 to the town of Doddamalur whear spontaniouse hospitality provided us with a room above a volunteer hospital and a tiffen dinner.
 

From Jesus to Krishna

Day 42

I peddled along the highway through stunning scenery to the home of brother Moses, an evangelist and family man living in a village near Krishnagiri coconut palms and a scattering of giant rock monoliths. He had only been in this home for two months to begin his missionary work with the local Hindu villagers. They were a lowly educated family living in a nice but featureless house, giving the impression that perhaps they were a tribal people suddenly plucked up and placed into comfort but unsure how to use it. All a family of 5 really need is a kitchen, bathroom and one room with a bare floor on which together they can eat, pray and sleep. The other rooms are symbols of wealth or spaces assigned to the mysterious activities of the rich or western. I taught crab tiggy to his children on the open rooftop then watched as his wife prepare dinner. The 5 year old son was adamant to operate the kitchen blender. This resulted in the room and all of its inhabitants being showered in samba. The mother accepted this mistake without anger or humour, but inate motherly Indian patience and sent us away to clean ourselves without any scolding. After dinner together on the floor we took turns to read through a chapter of proverbs and each share which one was our favourite.

Day 43

I had a beautiful hilly ride through yellow flower plantations used for the act of puja when the Hindus decorate their shrines. I spent the night with brother Joseph in Hosur in his small rented flat. His wife and children were living elsewhere. Despite his diploma in mechanical engineering he said his wage was still barely enough to support his family. He would not accept my payment in return for his hosting me. He was keen to show me his nicely published wedding album filled with happy colourful graphics around somber fearful faced photos of the bride and groom. We then had a tender conversation about western Christians drinking alcohol which Indian Christians did not agree with. He said Jesus did not drink and we are called to be like him. I'm not sure if Jesus drank or not but I believe anything we do for pleasure should be done in a way that's sustainable and does not lead to immorality. I feel perhaps he had a more text book approach to religion and found him to be a kind hearted yet frustrated man of faith.

Day 44

I spent the morning with Josephs Hindu land lord enjoying a a philosophical and theological conversation. It was my first opportunity to question a Hindu about details of their faith  and the reason for so many rituals. We came to the conclusion that rituals such as lighting an oil lamp in a shrine to gain enlightenment were not necessary but helpful as tools to engage the mind in prayer and meditation and promote discipline in striving to communicate with god. These rituals must be done with a conscious mind and heart or else they are like a mother feeding her baby but without nurturing or compassion. This was his analogy. The physical action took place but the spiritual or emotional potential was lost. We went on to speak of what is life. I shared my latest hypothesis or perspective of life being "click of the fingers" now. Unconscious of the movement of time but entangled in the current activity, thought or conversation. I was unable to get his definition as conversation turned to an awkward yet ego inflating expression him and his mother calling me great and seeing me as some kind of enlightened guru. "An Indian man your age would never think of these things" they said. Really I think most people just don't need so much space to think. Loaded with fruit and hugs I set off for Bangalore where 40kms and 48 hours from now I would be reuniting with my father who I had not seen in 18 months. The last 500kms would be done together. I am excited to share the journey with him yet wonder are the roads of India big enough for the two of us.

After a long crawl through bus wedging traffic I reached the home of Sharda and Krishnari, a Hindu man married to a christian women. I was relieved that they remembered me from 3 weeks ago when we met in a hotel in Trichy where they gave me their address and an invite to stay with them once I reached Bangalore.

Dreams from a concrete matrice

Day 29

The next weeks route from Chennai to Bangalore was to be a skip along the brethren trail. Each night I would spend in a new town with a new family from the christian brethren denomination. Each night the activities of Tamil Nadu Brethren family life were woven patiently between the hours of intermittent government electricity cuts, totalling at 14 hours per day. Cooking, a late dinner, family bible study, prayer and communal sleep side by side on woven mats for dreams from a concrete matrice were all followed with comforting text book reliability, only different people, different villages and different levels of wealth or poverty.

I rode to Shriperumbader to meet Brother Louis and his family. His son took me for an evening walk to see a memorial park for an assassinated prime minister. He was very much loved for his promotion of equality. By all it seems but the Tamil Tiger rebel group. The park was impressive with 7 stone pillars topped with gold symbols to represent the 7 virtues of something or other. One virtue was education but the rest were not important enough for the boy to remember. More interesting was to talk with the boy about arranged marriage. He was happy to have his father find his wife. When I told him I must find my own but will take her to my father for his opinion and approval, his response was that his father would beat him if he did such a thing. Perhaps figuratively speaking. In the night his father, him and I slept on mats on the church floor while the wife and daughter slept in the simple home.

day 30

A 30km ride to the temple town of Kanchhipuram. I met with another brethren elder in the night who took me to sleep in a tiny bus shelter sized church which held a modest congregation of 15

Day 40

On the highway to Vellore to stay with another brother. Tonight's bible study was in English with more well off educated doctors.

Day 41

I woke to find an old man poking around the lock on my tricycle. It so happened he was a wheel spoker and pointed out the pile of spokes and rims under a nearby tree ready for the days work. It turned out that these wheels were not destined for bicycles but would be taken to a nearby factory making hand powered tricycles. I followed him to the factory to see disabled workers at pressing machines and half made tricycles. One worker cruised around the grounds on my cycle while I tried his model. I found mine is more versatile for varieties of terrain and easier to control while theirs is more suitable and faster on flat even ground and much cheaper. The quality is perhaps less as is the seating support, ongoing patient assessment and compliance with world health standards. It was nice to see that they only employed disabled workers where possible.




I rode on to Vaniyambadi where the locals debated over my ragged piece of paper on which my destined address was scrawled. One man led me down a remote rode to a simple concrete home among the banana trees. I had been unable to contact the family to request their hospitality beforehand and was now confronted with a confused non English speaking woman unsure why this white man on a strange machine had arrived at her doorstep. A phone call to Nana Segal in Chennai cleared the situation and she welcomed me warmly. In the evening her husband Joseph collected a disabled boy in leg braces to try out the cycle.


I then played numerous games of chess with his enthusiastic 14 year old daughter who must have been happy to finally have an opponent. For the first time in my life I was a chess master and she happily accepted multiple defeat while I was happy for a new form of interaction and distraction from late dinner hunger pains as dinner is difficult to prepare by power cut and torch lite. After bible study we all slept side by side on woven mats. Husband, Wife, daughter, son and me an unexpected yet warmly welcomed white stranger. I lay uncomfortably on the concrete yet listened happily to the billowing of 4 differently sized dreaming lungs. Panting contentedly as one cam driven family machine at my side.

Thatch huts and hurricains

Day 21

Why don't you get a motor people say as if they have just informed me
of this helpful piece of new technology. I tell them that they have
missed the point. This trip was not intended to be a walk in the park.
It was intended to be a muddy crawl through the fiery pits of hell. No
just joking, I'm not quite that masochistic. It was intended to be a
test of human endurance. In body, mind, character and spirit. An
adventure with purpose. A pursuit of compassion. Why? To inspire.
Imagination, heart and wallet. To put a crack in a pane of monotony.
It is nice to feel that I am able to make a difference to those that
are disabled and unfortunate. But even just to see a smile on a child's
face, a look of disbelief in an old mans eye, a moment of question in
a business mans mind. My world is always moving. Or I am always
moving from one orbiting world to the next. As I pass through it is my
duty to smile. For perhaps on my journey I glimpsed what was at the
centre of it all, and what I saw was reason to smile, and perhaps
cause for spectators of small things to believe that yes maybe they
are all part of something great.

The result of too much time in the thinking chair. But this day saw me
in bed for some much needed recovery.

Day 22

I rode on to Cudalore, thrilled to reunite with the coast where the
beach was scattered with happy families and lovers enjoying nature and
ice cream like any healthy westerner. I spent the evening in a hall
with 40 middle aged rotary men to observe their 3 monthly meeting to
update on each clubs projects. When asked to make a quick speech about
my project, it seemed that impromptu speaking comes fairly easy when
your audience does not understand English. Actually most of them were
fairly educated so caught the drift and were very supportive as well
as eager for a photo with the cycle afterwards. They shared their club
meal with my newly recovered appetite and helped me to find a lodge
for the night.

Day 23

I cycled on to the town of Pondicherry, surprised by the sudden
appearance of white faces as a few thousand french nationals live here.
I cruised up the beachfront esplanade and enjoyed a western yet by
Indian standards expensive chicken sandwich. I continued up the coast
into no lodge zone, but happy to finally not be cranking towards a set
destination or time. I pulled down a side road to pass men drinking
after work whisky secretly beneath the palm trees, through small
fishing villages of palm leaf shacks and colourful boats to reach a
rough sea for a long promised swim. My mystery bedroom for the night
ended up being a mat on the floor of a workshop beneath a large lathe
with two teenager boys who's families must no longer have room for them.
They would have taught me Tamil language and script long into the
night but eventually I had to tell them I was tired.

Day 24

Progress up the coast was slow due to heavy rain. One man invited me
home to his thatch hut for lunch where lived his extended family all
congregated with goats and turkeys beneath a walless roof with a bed
and a table and an out of place lap top used by a small boy for
playing games. The home was simple with a kitchen, TV room and shrine
yet they seemed very content in what comforts and wealth they had and
with family at hand. The rain persisted so I accepted their invite to
spend the night. The afternoon cleared briefly to let us play
badminton on the road and cook some palm tree roots on a roadside
fire.

Day 25

I rode to Mahabalipuram, a town of amazing rock temples and relief
sculpures cut into bolders. It was a joy to hide my cycle and wander
the foreigner sprinkled streets like a normal tourist.



 
Day 26

Mahibalipuram

Day 27

I plowed on up to Chennai through a hurricane. The wind was in my face
the whole way and often pushed against my arm power to a point of
motionless equilibrium. Eventually I made it into the city without
being crushed by a falling branch or decapitated by a flying piece or
iron. My informative sign had blown off somewhere along the way. I
found a lodge and sent my wind swept body to sleep.

Day 28

I finally got the Mend patient forms for all of my tricycle recipients
filled in and emailed off to the distributors though multiple power
cuts meant I had to do this multiple times taking me all morning. I
had an uninspirng practice at using my legs for a walk around the cities
dirty Indian invaded colonial streets and a sit on the massive beach
transformed into a giant flee market before a short ride to stay with a
family in the outskirts. It was so nice to be back in a friendly home and given a list of families I could stay with on my next leg towards Bangalore.

Row, Row, Row your tricycle

Day 18

My first experience of the hospitality of the Indian rotary club. Thomas organised the Rotary president of Thanjavur to help me with accommodation. I was very happy to be given a clean room and not spend all night looking for it. Trying to mend my stomach I thought American chomein would be a safe choice for dinner. This turned out to be a bowl of tomato ketchup with a couple of carrots floating in it and reiniciated my tummy problems.

Day 19

I set off towards Kumbakonam expecting a short days travel of 45km and perhaps some rest for my tummy. This day was a Hindu festival. Every truck and shop was adorned with palm leaf decorations and music blasted from large speakers across the rural land scape giving the sensation of riding within a bollywood movie. I was looking forward to visiting a bronze factory I had herd of on the way. Upon asking "bronze Factory" to the locals at the small settlement I was maraculasly taken to a tiny shack with a young boy. He showed me the plaster molds, wax models and the bucket of mud which was to encase them for casting. There was a small pit in the back yard to light a fire to melt the bronze and a set of punches and files for finnishing work. All was done on a muddy floor yet beautiful figures of multi armed and trunked Indian gods were being created skillfully. I gave the boy 50rp and was delighted to see a great white toothed smile appear on his seriouse face. My short days travel was taking much longer than anticipated, due to my achey tummy, persistant rain and pot holes. It was now getting dark and I had to race on to Kumbakonam where another Rotarian said I may spend the night in his hotel. Night fell and the rain became a waterfall. Poor drainage meant I was soon plowing through shin deep water, my back pack half submerged. I would gladdly have traded my hand powered tricycle in for a row boat. Passing trucks threw up thick sprays of water reminding af the sensation of popping out of a water slide and splashing suddenly into the pool at the bottom. All I could do was laugh solitarily at the rediculouseless of my soggy situation. After a lot of questionaing I finnaly located my hotel and was show to a luxouriouse room with the first hot shower I had seen since arriving in India. After draping my wet worldly possesions about the room I curled up into bed with a shivery feever and a stomach that despised all food. Ding Dong. I was disrupted by the hotel man inviting me to the festival celebrations. It was my duty to attend so I hobbled off to the reception room where the hindu ritual took place. For the next hour, floweres and bananas were chanted to by sainly looking gurus. All people touched the items of offering then touched their hands to their faces. Sandle wood, red paste and ash were applied to the chakra spot above the forehead and numerouse insence were burned. All was done with little sign of conciouse emotion as if it was a mindless act of necessity such as brushing ones teeth. It is a strange sort of religion where it seems all that matters is the ritual is completed and there is some idle to focus on, be it a gold statue or a tinsel covered road cone. Even this computer has a hindu spot above the monitor. It was also one mans birthday so a giant part popper 10 times too big for the room was exploded accross us. I was happy to have been invited this comunity spirited gathering yet happy to hobble back to bed as a tired, achey, insence fumigated, confettie snitzel. After another 5 minuts sleep. Ding Dong. I was now greeted by the rotary man and his friends who crowded onto my bed for a chat like a mens slumber party. Finally I was left to squeaze in a quick sleep for recovery before having to leave early in the morning as there were no lodges for the next 80km.

Day 20

An enlightening exposure into the mind blowing possibilities of incredible diarhea. Travel was slow due to little desire for food for energy and every 5 minuts and appointment with increddible diarhea. After shaking off my enterage of growling zombie dogs and laughing children, I would then locate a tree which was not inhabited by a shoe repair man or a small family to relieve my intenstinal pain. As the day progressed, I was forced to select my toilet spots more liberally and was soon chatting to a local audience from the bushes as they crowded around to observe my curiouse machine and bare white man's bottom with no sign of embarisment. 11 hours after leaving I finally rolled into Vadalur sick and tired where a rotarian offered me a hard wooden bench to spend the night. I thanks him for the offer but said I will find myselfe a comfortable lodge to recover. "No problem, I can arange it", he said. some more rotarians arived for conversation and by 10pm I was shown to a softly bedded hotel room very greatfull.

Elephant, Tigers and warthogs, Oh My!

Day 12

Rest

Day 13

I waited until 11:30 in hopes that the rain would stop but ended up setting off in drizzle into the national park which separates Kerala and Tamil Nadu. By 3pm I was deep within the park on a pot hole riddled road decorated with signs showing portraits of tigers and captions reading "Please don't stop vehicles". This was most comforting, especially as my chain kept deciding to come off and I felt time was due for my first puncture. I was told not to travel through the park at morning or dusk and hunting time was now approaching. I cranked religiously until my biceps bled and I passed out of the sanctuary gates into safety. The only animals I came across were some warthogs who fled at my arrival. So here I was now in the State of Tamil Nadu. Wow this is true tricycle country. Flat roads for miles, like riding on a placid lake. I would have swarn I was in Africa with the dry ground, withered trees and rock monoliths rising out of the plains. I cruised into Udamulipet town and met with a friend of Titus's for the night. This was a family of singers and we had a wonderful night of sing along.


Day 14

On my journey this day I met with a middle aged disabled woman residing in an orphanage. She had polio, cross eyes and walked on her knees but greeted me thankfully. She was capable of riding the cycle, though will need a little practise until she can make it go where she wants it to and will soon be riding around the ashram, to chruch and into town. I continued on to Oddanchatram where Thomas advised me to stop at the  hospital to look for tricycle recipients. This was a large complex but somehow I managed to find myself in the physio therapy department with many physicians poking at my machine. They had no one available at present but were sure someone suitable would arrive, so I decided to donate one cycle to the department. One physio invited me home to sleep the night.

Day 15

This was a day of riding on rough farming back roads. In a land where only children smiled. There were many gaunt faced farming men and woman tending to goats on the roadside. Their feet stuck to the soil with no pressing need in life inspiring them to move them any time soon. I tried my best to summon a smile from their dark tribally pierced faces, but achieved nothing but an alien stare. I stopped for lunch at a road stall of beef fried rice. A big mistake. My intended town of sleep had no lodge (only reporters, see photo) so I had to go a further 15km, making this my longest day at 110km.






Day 16

Beef fried rice bites back. This was a wet day and I had no choice but to set off in the rain with my new found food poisoning. I felt very week with only the weight of my heavy hands to turn the cranks. It took a long time to travel 30km with many a stop for a roadside vomit. (sorry I am just trying to give a true account). On this day I was also stopped by two people who had disabled friends. I loaded the cycle onto a mans truck to meet on lady with polio working as a clerk in a college to test her on the cycle. I later was taken to a lady with a tea stall who also had polio. I was happy to have been able to help them but very unenthusiastic with my sickness and prayed for no more stops before I reached the next town and found a bed to curl up in. As I approached the town I was intercepted by the press. I was very unresponsive, let them, take a sour photo and I pedalled on ignoring their requests for an interview. In the town of Trichy, finding a lodge was not so easy. I asked one man if he knew of one. He led me for about 2 hours to many lodges which he said were full then asked me to buy him dinner. The next lodge was free and I was so happy to have a bed. My new guide decided he would sleep in my room for the night. I told him no, gave him some money for his time and refused his offer to come back tomorrow. A couple staying in the hotel now wanted me to visit them in their room. All I wanted was to curl up and recover but I swaggered down the stairs for a quick chat. They were a nice couple. A Hindu man and christian women living together for 43 years happily married. They invited me to visit them when I arrived in Bangalore.




Day 17

Just one day to be a tourist would be nice. I was still rather sick and could eat nothing all day but managed to drag myself to a temple and sleep under one of its decorative columns.

Day 18

I felt much stronger and peddled off to Tanjor where a rotary man met me and organised a room for me which I was not expecting. I even had some afternoon time for a visit to the amazing Brahideshavra temple.

Every Good Journey needs a mountain

Day 7

I had only a morning ride to Muvattapuzha, then a 10km detour to Valakom to meet Thomas's friend James, his wife and 2 sons. James retired after 20 years work in Dubai to return to Kerala for a peacefull life with a nice house and small vegetable garden. We shared lunch before introducing me to a man who had fallen from a coconut tree. He was good at using the cycle and has flat ground from his home into town so should be a suitable recipient.

Day 8

I cycled off to Thattekkad wildlife sanctuary stopping on the way to get a new stronger, wider rim and tyre that had no bald patch. This seemed to fix my square wheel sensation and improve my juddery breaking which would be important for the approaching mountains. My success at seeing wildlife at the sanctuary was small, instead I had a long lecture from the manager about how we can't let tourists into sanctuaries as they destroy the habitat. He wanted me to share this message through what he seemed to see as my high profile status. I agreed with his argument then took his details as a possible recipient as he had an ankle problem and many disabled visitors to the sanctuary. I spent the night at the sanctuary home stay. The lady keeper took me to visit a local man with one leg working at a small tea shop. He also seemed suitable for the cycle.

Day 9

The day started through a rubber plantation, where I stopped to watch a rugged woodman as he flitted from tree to tree like an elf extracting the rubber from a coconut shell and re cutting the spiral shoot down the trunk so that fresh liquid rubber could run down to be collected. The rubber is put into drums with a solvent to keep it liquid until until it reaches the factory. I reached the town of Neriamungalam, purchased a coconut, stashed it away and began my gruelling climb of 1.65km over the next 50km. I had to pick up the cycle and drag it most of the way as my one set gear is not possible to use on steep hills. I stopped at a waterfall for lunch where a local cracked open my coconut so that I could devour half of it for lunch while enjoying the view. One stall keeper named Finny invited me to spend the night with his family near Adimali and join him for church the next day. I slept in their simple home on the lush jungle hillside. His father was a paster and his mother a housewife who was very ashamed at having time only to prepare an amazing chicken curry and not the usual 5 dish meal that Indian people eat.









Day 10

 It feels very tribal when you enter these indian church services. All sit on the floor, men one side, women the other and clap and chant in a trance like state. I was asked to deliver a message so I spoke of my journey, read psalm 139,9 and sang amazing grace with finny's translation. I sped off after Church in hopes of reaching the hillstation town of Munnar before dark. My afternoon tea of my remaining half coconut had developed some pink mold in the last 24 hours. I cut most of it out but was still left in a mildly paranoid state about being poisoned on a remote jungle hillside. At 4pm the rain came pelting so I sat on the cycle beneath a tarpaulin as a river gushed beneath me for 1 hour. I had allowed for 4 hours for this 27 km journey. Instead it to 7.5. The jungle turned to stunning bushy cultivated tea plantation hillsides. These slowly melted into darkness, the rain returned and the road grew steeper and rougher. As I came to drag my burden through an ankle deep mudslide amidst backed up traffic waiting for a digger to clear the road, my flag pole snapped and so did my deluded sensation of being Jesus carrying his cross. I had a fleeting fantasy of casting the tricycle down the mountainside, smashing it into tea leaf sized pieces. I pushed this thought aside and continued my achey ascent. Traffic thinned, night fell and the hill flattened. I trundled through dripping pot holed darkness lit dimly by my hand held flashlight until reaching the cold hill station of Munnar where one man in a medical shop was waiting for me. Here I slept the night in his hobbit home praying for hot morning sun.

Day 11

"Let me wake to warm and sunny
Dry my bones turn skin to honey
Watch the steam rise off my clothes
Up to where my spirit goes
Here's one secret that I know
Heavens hot and hell is cold"

I had a glorious morning climbing the sunny hill road through more perfect ea bushes, dotted with colourfully clothed tea shearing men and women. Then like a sudden bright idea where there stood one man and one cow, my mountain decided it was time for descent. Two news reporters met me at the bottom and I was able to get a copy of their filming on my USB. When I reached the town of Murayur, Thomas had organised yet another host for me. Brother Titus was a 30 year old paster living with his wife and baby, running a church for the local tribal people. I was given a spacious room overlooking a valley of sugar cain.

Days in a Dotie

Day 4

Thomas convinced me to divert my rout for a days rest at his friends old age home in Malapoly. I missed my turn off and ended up on a beautiful backroad through rice fields. Many people approached me throughout the day to show me my photo in the paper. One man lead me down a dirt road to his friend in crutches. He showed me the scar down his back and explained his recent fall leaving him in a crippled position from which he may never recover. I took his details then raced on to Thiruvalla to meet thomas's friend Pasta jackson and load my disassembled tricycle into his boot to go to his old age home. I had dinner with his family who happened to be celebrating his daughters 9th birthday. This was a low key celebration much like a western birthday. They sang happy birthday to a candled cake, except they did not blow out the candles as pasta Jackson believed this was to be a year of beginnings not extinguishings. I then watched in delight as they each fed cake to the others mouth wiping it across their cheek in the process.

Day 5

This day of rest began with a game of badminton followed by a press interview. I was filmed cycling and then talking to each of the old age residents. One man was happy to talk for hours sharing his vast knowledge gathered from life working in a theological library. He was a hobbling religious statistical encyclopedia. He later taught me how to tie a dotie which is the sheet that Indian men wear around their legs. Before leaving he gifted me proudly with an old moldy sheet that he had perhaps inherited from dobby the house elf 60 years ago. I was very happy to accept it and have been wearing it with pride. Pasta Jackson is part of the Martoma church which originated in Kerala from st Thomas and now exist all over the world for Indian people to attend. I was invited to a home prayer meeting which although I did not understand the language, seems not so different from baptist meetings. The pasta did however where a special white robe. Every  3 years he is allocated a new church and must relocate his family. He seemed to me a gentle natured calm man who spoke enforceable and little of his religion regarding how consuming I perceived it to be.

Day 6

I triked off after breakfast for a long day through undulating terrain which involved a great deal of dragging up hill, refixing my untieing dotie which was determined to reveal my white upper legs, then cruising down the other side. In the evening a light rain came and along with it darkness. Every small jungle building calling itself a hotel did not seem to have a room for me. Trucks did seem to see me fairly easily in the dark with my reflectors and mirror. It was oncoming traffic blinding me from the potholes which was mostly the problem. Finally just as I was finding that darkness and wet slipping breaks would put an end to my days travel I was shown to a lodge for the night.

Apologies if Pasta is not the correct spelling for a religious leader as apposed to an Italian meal.

Getting Cranking






Well it is now the end of day three since I began cranking my way through the coconut palmed, florescent colourfully homed, roads of Kerala South India on my shiny new hand powered tricycle (Named NED in honor of a sponsors late father). I was sent off in style with local film coverage and a malay placed over my head by a local dignitary. I am not able to say that the cycle I am using was made by me, though I did spend a couple of weeks helping my local Indian fairy God father Thomas work on developing MENDS old design. It still has further work to do on it so I am using a great design from UK which is distributed in Bangalore. MEND has a half price agreement with them so we should be able to supply a few needy people with these from donation money.

I have come fond of my cycle over the last few days during my ride from Kunnamkullam to Cochi and now Allepey. Every 5 minutes a news paper reporter or film crew seem to jump out from the bushes to investigate this strange unidentified 3 wheel object adorned with a New Zealand and Indian flag, streamers, reflectors, a big informative sign in two languages on the back and one on each wheel, one air horn and one rear view mirror. Every 30 seconds I am flagged down by roadside locals wanting to ask questions. Every Few hours I come across a disabled person interested in a cycle so I put them in it for a test ride and take their contact details. With all these distractions I am still managing to stay on schedule and feel confident that 2000 km is an achievable goal that does not have to end in my death. 10 km  per hour is my average speed when I am actually able to move. The road thus far has been fairly flat, not too busy and not too bumpy, though we have stood test to a little of each. Any slight hill does require a good deal of panting and cheek puffing which scares the locals but gets me over the rise. Any real hill requires that I get of and dray the machine by the front wheel which is not such a problem for me who has legs.

I have collected details of about 5 possible tricycle recipients though some people I have met, found it to be unsuitable due to the crank being too high, their upper body strength too weak, or their being obese. I feel that the more effective means of distributing the cycles to those that really need them is to supply them to various rehabilitation centres who's job it is to locate these people and asses them properly. This can be done, though It is still nice to interact with the disabled people I meet, have a personal connection to the project and hopefully help them. I am committed both to sponsors and myself to complete the distance so can't stop for every ingrown toenail but can when I see someone who we have a good chance of being able to help.

So far there have been no big issues. The chain came off a few times but I retentioned it and it seems to be holding. I have a slight sore on my left bottom cheek which your would not think possible looking at the cushy seat, but 7 hours of sitting on a bony bum rocking back and forth is not so ergonomic.

Thomas, the man I was helping to make a cycle with in Kunamkullam has been an amazing help to the project. He phones my every few hours to check up and acted as a support vehicle on his motor bike for the first days ride.  Ill keep you all updated when I can get time and access to Internet. Subscribe to get my posts automatically emails to you.

Thanks again for your donations. Check out the pages on this web site as I have updated the mission, the route and donation instructions.

Lots of Love from my pumping heart and achy throbbing biceps.

Shasa Bolton