Tanjore to Tiruchirappalli (Trichy) (55 km)
January 29, 2007 Road conditions: smooth sealed most of the way. Total elapsed time: 2:30 (another 30 to get through town). Fuel: 2 bananas, milk coffee, 1 litre of water, buttery biscuits and Gu. Weather: Sunny and warm/30 C.
There was nothing particularly tricky about getting to Trichy, it was just an uphill toil. From the get go, the landscape is largely uninspiring: industrial factories, engineering townships and Trichy suburban sprawl. And, but for a few seconds here and there, the Indian city traffic never thinned out.
In an effort to beat the heat, Marcus has taken to departing sometime in the morning dark. He eats 10 bananas before leaving and then 10 more on the road. Rather than cycling solo, I became the subject of an ongoing and unofficial tourism survey conducted by each passing motobike driver. It's always the same,
'Hello Madame, what is your name' And no matter how many times I say '
Julie' they respond
'Julia, ahhhh, that's a nice name.' I'm not sure if this confusing compliment implies I'm a nice person or if the name has simply taken on a nice sound. Then it's
'Madame, which country?' The deafening cacophony of horns around us require that this question be repeated several times. Finally, and somewhat inaccurately, I holler between the cows, '
Caleeefornia'.
'Ahhh, Caleefornia, that's nice.' All the while I'm dodging oncoming trucks, overpassing goats and zig-zagging between people appearing out of no where. At first this curious questioning was somewhat endearing but after nearly an hour of the same monotonous dialogue, I found talking to myself far more scintillating (and safer). And so, for the first time since arriving in India I simply put my head down and wished I had my Nano I-POD.
Try as I did, I never caught Marcus before entering Trichy. I was swallowed up alone in the overwhelming streets of 850,000. Fortunately, major intersections were well staffed with under-employed rickshaw drivers particularly adept at pointing me right, left or straight. Marcus and I reunited at the clean and comfortable Hotel Aanand located just caddy-corner to the central bus station, a jog from the train junction and block from the nearest bar.
After we consumed large quantities of Thalis with our hands (delicious tortilla like bread with 12 mysterious and different sauces, curries and salads), I sought with a fervor (and distended stomach) my first Kingfisher beer. Although produced in India, alcohol is rarely served. I'm finding, to my great displeasure, even beer is considered more taboo than eating the sacred cow. Of the few upscale hotels with a permit to serve alcohol, it's not advertised nor on any menu. So it was with 5 days of thirst that I enthusiatically followed my guidebook map to Bar Cowboy or something like that. It was exactly what every unsavory house of sin should look like; down 6 flights of stairs in a basement, curtains drawn and lights out. I've never been into an adult book store or strip club before but I imagine this must be what they look like. There was some loud bizarre music and a barely visible man waving me in, but the thought of a clandestine drink was not what I had in mind. Indeed, on second thought, a cold orange Fanta would do me just fine.
Forgoing the 432 steps to the top of the Rock Fort temple, I spent the remainder of my afternoon nursing my legs in anticipation of tomorrow's big ride.
