January 24 - The Ride and Rendezvous
I don't know how other people navigate OUT of Chennai, but I had the distinct feeling no one had ever done it this way before. And, despite the circuitous route, all the while I rode I was keenly aware of how utterly thrilling and knuckle-clenching the experience was (pardon the dangling participle).
Taking my first left out of New Woodlands Hotel I promptly discovered my maps bore no resemblance to the streets and the streets no resemblance to their names. Plagued by a confusing mixture of old British names, new 'traditional' names and dearth of any road signs, I resorted to feeling my way out. Turning south, I was swept up in the city of 6 million, where I found the entire population crammed onto the same narrow street. There were thousands of buses, belching rickshaws, beggars, cows, blaring music, foul smells, dhoti-clad men on cell phones, motorbikes carrying families of at least 5 across, goats, naked-turbaned men performing their morning prayers, trash, dead dogs, sleeping people, walking people, people-people everywhere. Ahhhh, welcome to India indeed!
Just past the 400 year old Banyan tree, it's a hard left then a straightforward spin (and quiet roads) from north to south down East Coast Rd. along the Bay of Bengal to Mamallapuram (formerly Mahabalipuram). Famous for its World Heritage-worthy rock carved temples, Mama is really a tiny fishing village and travelers' hang-out. Of the town's 12,000 residents, there's a symbiotic relationship between the 3,000 fisherman, 3,000 emaciated hippies (who visited and never went home) and 6,000 mosquitos. Time to take the Malarone!
After a glimpse at the beach and bit of 'hotel shopping', I checked into a small mismanaged guesthouse for 300 Rs/night (the official rate is about 45 rupees to 1 USD but the best exchange I've been able to get is 43 Rs). A gorgeous cup of joe and the Hindu Times kept me company as I waited for Marcus to arrive. Marcus flew the week prior from JFK to Mumbai (formerly Bombay) and made his way south via an adventure of his own. A combination of broken buses, trains and rickshaws would bring him to Mama sometime in late afternoon.
With a spring in his step and wearing a wide grin, Marcus tosses me a 'welcome to India twist - a freshly purchased Indian bike. Now, in all fairness, this is not just ANY Indian bike; it's a black Hercules Thriller complete with one speed, a cushy seat, upright handlebars and adorned all around with red flames. Proud of his new purchase, Marcus was beaming like a little boy opening his Huffy at Christmas. Me, on the other hand, could only equate it to running a marathon in a pair of new Crocks a few sizes too small. OUCH!
Dinner was rice and something else, seaside on the roof top of Bob Marley lounge. The cool seabreeze and low lights lulled me to an early deep sleep just before 10.
