Stage 4 · Almora – Delhi – Jaipur
Racing toward the desert
Two legs ridden the same day: Almora–Delhi (311 km, 9 h) and Delhi–Jaipur (377 km, 9.5 h).
I set off for the desert, chasing a warmth I won’t find. A very long transfer stage, split over two days. Leaving Almora, though, I pass through Ranikhet to look far off toward Tibet, at the snow-capped peaks. A touch of regret, which the cold quickly cures. I just ride, taking in the scenery. I ride for a long time, alone, on tarmac often damp, which calls for caution and a gentle touch on the brakes. The air, almost unnaturally clear, lets the eye reach far into the distance (when the road and its bends allow it). The road narrows, so do the valleys. Were it not for the milestones, lettered in Hindi, this could be a back road through the Umbrian Apennines. Then. Then the mountains are behind me, I start descending toward Delhi, and further down I see an immense sea of cream covering, inexorably, the whole plain. I savour the last sunlit bends, then leave the sun beating on the Himalaya behind and plunge into a grey haze. December is a transitional month, and down on the plain, fog is common. Fog and cold. But how far to the desert? I keep riding through fog and cold. At sunset, I stop — a hotel along the highway, a hundred and thirty kilometres short of Delhi. I unload my bags, eat at the hotel restaurant — tandoori chicken; after a week of vegetarian food a little meat doesn’t hurt. I go to bed early, set off again at dawn. Still fog, still cold. Crossing Delhi to pick up the dreadful Delhi–Jaipur highway, I get trapped in a jam. I don’t know if it’s chance, or the usual early-morning traffic, but it feels like being ‘a little more hell, a little less hell’ (Gesualdo Bufalino, Night’s Lies). An hour to cover six kilometres. Cars everywhere. And everyone honking. The road is completely jammed. I watch motorbikes hop the central divider and set off, against the flow, into the far less crowded opposite lane. Before long they’re a steady stream. I don’t dare do the same — my luggage is bulky and I don’t feel ready for such acrobatics. The oncoming cars just edge over a little, and everything carries on as before. Nobody gets ruffled. Nobody gets angry. Everyone honks. Slowly I resign myself. I’ll get there when I get there. A crude philosophy, but perfectly suited to the situation — and to India in general.
The Delhi–Jaipur highway is a genuine nightmare. Heavy traffic, endless diversions, terrible road surface. Three hundred and seventy-seven kilometres in nine and a half hours on the bike — the longest stage of the whole trip. I decide to cover as much ground as possible and ride the whole day. I stop at a roadside hotel as soon as it gets dark, and set off again at dawn, still in the fog. And the cold. It keeps being cold. Delhi is one solid block of cars. Exhausting. I crawl along. The ‘highway’ (!) between Delhi and Jaipur turns out to be a genuine nightmare — hundreds of diversions, heavy traffic. I’m in a hurry, but I keep my guard up. On this stretch I dodged two cars coming the wrong way down the overtaking lane.
I dodged things you humans can’t even imagine might be found on the roads. Coming toward me, and going my way. In my lane, in the one to the right, and the one to the left. And in the one above, and the one below. And in the other two.
Finally the long transfer ends and I reach Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, laid out in the early 1700s by a Maharajah with a passion for astronomy. I find myself swept up in wonderfully colourful traffic — people, palaces, vehicles, goods in the bazaars. Everything shines with vivid, warm, cheerful colours. The GPS guides me to the hotel through improbable streets with unrelenting precision. Reassuring. The sky is full of kites.
What I saw arriving in the city pushes me, despite my tiredness, straight back out of the hotel. A hot shower and off I go, into one of the most colourful bazaars I visit on the whole trip. Frantic, immense, noisy. I ride around aimlessly until evening.
The next morning I get up late, have an Indian breakfast, rest, read, write, listen to music, and plan the coming stages. Then I go out again, back into the bazaar, but this time on the bike. By now I’ve got used to it, and feel perfectly at ease riding through this noisy chaos. I get the luggage rack welded back together after it broke on a brutal speed bump — a negotiation carried out entirely in gestures and smiles (they’re highly amused that a foreigner has come to them to fix a motorcycle), take some photos, buy a few gifts, always mindful that whatever I add to my luggage I’ll then have to carry with me.
I sleep like a child, thinking of the desert waiting for me.
Photographs
