Trichy to Madurai (130 km)
Road conditions: sealed and superb. Elapsed time: 5:25. Fuel: Dosas, bananas & peanut butter and 2 litres of water. Weather: Pleasant overcast morning giving way to hot sunny skies.
Even the most indecisive should have no trouble in India. Choices are kept real simple. Restaurants are either veg or non-veg; menus separated by wet and dry; hotel rooms are A/C or non-A/C; water is either 2 litres or 1; or, as it applies to alcohol, there really is no choice at all. Perhaps the only multifaceted matter that presents itself with a daily discussion is which route to take and how far to go.
Marcus and I had gone to bed in Trichy chewing over the potential options: ride the 130 km to Madurai and take a day off or, ride to Madurai and one or both of us would take a bus direct to Kodaikanal (the only American established hill stations in South India), or skip the ride to Madurai and go directly to Kodaikanal, etc.. The options were endless but we easily discussed and dismissed the idea of riding to Kodaikanal; at 2100 meters it would be a big match for Hercules or, on this trip, even Ganesh. Ultimately, just before slumbering down, we decided and on what each of us wanted: I would ride the 130 km alone to Madurai and Marcus would take a bus to explore Kodaikanal for 24 hours, returning to Maduarai for one night rest.
If the words 'India' and 'peaceful' can be used in the same sentence, I found it today from Trichy to Madurai. Admittedly, I was a bit apprehensive about the distance, terrain and the unknown. Perhaps most disconcerting was the thought of riding into 1.5 million people with only as much as a lame guide book map (geared for backpackers arriving by bus). I was immensely pleased to affirm that most worrying is all for naught: I found excellent roads, very few buses and probably the best scenery yet.
The two lane road runs mostly west and slightly south on a largely flat plateau, threading itself through the eastern rock formations of the Palan Hills (part of the rugged Southern Ghats or mountain range). Palm trees, banana plantations and verdant rice fields lined both sides of the road. Beyond that were large red rock formations presumably part of the Palan Hills. It was like the tropics meeting Moab's red rocks, but in the middle of south central India.
My socialability with locals had noticebly improved over yesterday as I purposefully stopped several times to take photos and spread international good will. In the long stretch between Verarilmalai and Malur, I imagined I was wearing the maillot jaune. Sadly, there was a noticeable dearth of schools and, consequently, English speaking people in this section. Most of the kids could be found next to their kin, bending down in the fields alongside the road. Only one needed to spot me before word got around and the NH45 became lined with an almost continual row of waving fans. For each and every one, the waving continued until, satisfied, I waved back with a smile. Not only did all this waving serve to cool down my underarms, but it also gave me much needed opportunities to stretch my hunched back.
As bright as I may have been in high school, there were certain things I preferred not to know. One such thing was the little matter of having to put oil in my VW bug. This resulted in the natural and highly disappointing consequence of my engine exploding just a few weeks before going to college. Looking back, one has to wonder how I ever got accepted into a 4-year university. I mention this because up until this point Ganesh (the 10-year old Specialized Rockhopper) was running sound. But a few too many days of hard riding, dirt and pot holes had produced a chronic and disturbing clanking whenever there was too much torch on the pedals. I tried several times adjusting gears or my pedal stroke, but after about 3 hours I recalled the lesson I learned in high school. It's amazing what a little oil can do! I also took the much needed break to inhale what's become the best mid-day energy snack -- peanut butter and bananas. No, peanut butter is not an Indian staple; and, no, it's not easy to find. In fact, right now I'm carrying around my empty jar from town to town in hopes I can find someone who knows where I might purchase more.
By the time I reached Madurai, I was soaked through in sweat and drunk on adrenaline. The Tour de France festival atmosphere continued as the entire city was decked out with colorful monuments, flags and music. While I could easily have imagined it was for me, I later learned it was the Chief Minister's son's 56th birthday.
Madurai has a reputation for having particularly good value mid-range accomodation. To beat the loneliness blues and, more pressing, use my private room without Marcus to shave my legs in a real shower, I decided to tow the boat out, opting for a mid-range room (which amounted to $11/night). Sandwiched between two recommended hotels, I selected the Golden Park hotel for no other reason than the security guard out front had a nice smile. When I stepped inside, I saw immediately I had made the right choice -- it was brand spanking new. The staff was eager to please and, most impressive, the designers had painstakingly removed any hint of any 'Indian' (and I say that with all due respect) in the hotel. There were spotless top sheets and a thick comfy mattress, bath towels, toilets and cable TVs, phones and nightlights and other bathroom goodies that westerners have come to expect.
As much as I could have wallowed around in my room all afternoon, more important matters beckoned -- like mushroom masala and, yes, a cold beer! I passed the evening with a talkative and good-looking couple from Ottawa on the roof-top terrace of our hotel with a sunset view of the Sri Meenakshi Temple. With the conversation and entertainment so agreeable, I unknowingly sipped an intemperate amount of Kingfisher for dinner. I was very happy and immediatly enamored with Madurai.
Tomorrow, the first day off!
