IS IT OK TO HAVE FUN?

The country road from the Janjira ferry south twists through steep wooded hills and through river valleys – a glorious ride. I don't think of myself as a biker. I don't have the leathers or the decals. I've only changed a tyre once and I prefer to have a mechanic adjust the chain. It's not laziness nor incompetence, more that I enjoy watching a professional at his work and enjoy the usual crowd that frequent a bike mechanic's shop. I spent hours in Jaisalmer watching two Sikh brothers rebuild the motor on a 1960 Enfield. A few kicks and the motor started - splendid - and I ate dinner at their home a couple of times. The elder brother's wife speaks English and is studying business management at the University there.
This is beginning to read as an apology for enjoying myself. Not so. It's simply that I am surprised at the fun I get from biking (given that I don't think of myself as a biker), and given that most people on the road (foreign or Indian) think that my riding a bike round India is remarkable. Most are surprised that I've survived. True, I was in shock the first couple of weeks. India's traffic obeys neither laws nor logic, however it does have a rhythm – or that's what I feel. Get with the rhythm and you enjoy the ride. Or has the third fresh lime and soda gone to my head? Maybe I should stick with beer...

FERRIES ARE ROMANTIC

I have a great affection for ferries. The smaller the ferry, the more romantic. The Janjira ferry is a decked launch. Passengers sit on benches or on the roof. Eight motorbikes is the maximum wheeled cargo. Steep steps lead down to the quay. a narrow pathway bisects the steps. The angle of descent exceeds 45 degrees. The specialist from the ferry takes the bike keys and rides the bike down. Scary? Yes!
Four men lift the bike into the launch. The engineer starts the diesel engine and we thrum out to sea past fishing boats tugging at anchors. Heat haze softens the great grey fortification and makes of Janjira Fort a mirage floating on the water. Definitely romantic...and, as always on a boat or ship, we passengers, thrown together, fall into conversation. From where do I come? To where am I travelling? What of my family? So ask dark smiling friendly men, while I ask how the road is...
Mundane? Yes. But warming for a lone traveler, a charging of batteries that will last a day in the saddle.

DAUGHTERS

MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
The German family have departed. They were good people, well read and thoughtful, against the Iraq war, doubtful of involvement in Afghanistan, critical of Britain's subserviance to the United States. The mother photographed the bullock race. The father downloaded the pictures to my computer. Why did he download a picture of his daughter? Surely not a subconcious hope that she might find a husband through my Blog...

A BIG HURRAH FOR BEN HUR AT THE REAR

MURUD: FEBRUARY 9
Dawn in the garden at the Seashore Resort. A cool breeze off the sea stirs the palm fronds overhead. Crows pick through the night's rubbish discarded on the beach. Bath water heats on an open fire. The Resort's henah haired jack of all trades brings coffee and chai. The tide is out and the German family and I watch bulloock carts race each other along the glistening sand. Drivers whip the beasts and yell – all but a young lad bringing up the rear. Of his two bullocks, one is big and grey and staid. The second is small and young and tries to trot whilst the elder plods. The driver leans right forward and whacks the young bullock. For trotting or for not trotting fast enough? The driver ignores the old bullock. The older bullock igores the driver.