This is the story of my three week cycle trip in Southern India. It is comprised of personal emails and photos. Although essentually a very private account, I hope you, the reader, find something for yourself within these pages too. No doubt my wife and Giles, our travelling companion, have a different story to tell. I do not claim omnipotence over the truth. This is only my truth. This is my India. For every 100,000 road vehicles in the United Kingdom, 5.1 people die in road traffic accidents. In India the figure rises to 100.
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Undescribable India I would like to write about the past few days. I would like to tell you how it feels to be in India. The best place to start, if I were to do so, would probably be with the roads; this being, in many ways, a road trip. I would convey the unorganised chaos. The sheer insanity of the people, as they weave and wind their way between, through and around one another. I would, of course, describe their various modes of transport: their motorbikes, their battered and dented cars, their carts pulled by cows with large, curved horns. This melting pot of humanity often travelling together in a ridiculous swarm of traffic.
It would be necessary for me to clarify the system by which they negotiate such a hazardous mix; to explain how the mighty are right; how the larger one is, the more aggressively he can punch his, or its way down the various highways, roads and dirt tracks that make up this insane place. I would give examples. I would
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Unknown street, somewhere in India...
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mention busses overtaking on the brow of a hill, as the oncoming traffic hoots and swerves to avoid them. It would be important for me to explain the frequency of such events; that far from being the day’s talking point, they were, in fact, constant occurrences. A minute-by-minute terrifying example of the precious fragility of Indian life. Overtaking in India, it seems, must be done with a swerve, sending oncoming vehicles sharply swaying and roaring so close to our side, one feels their slip stream with frightening proximity – a proximity that the motorist finds perfectly normal. We three strange cyclists are impossible to ignore; brightly clad as we are in yellow fluorescent tshirts, our heads oddly protected, our bikes shiny and
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Our friend and travelling companion Giles, and Georgia, my wife, dressed in their flourescent garb. From the very start, we knew we would need to look as conspicious as possible. This photo was taken later in our trip, on the ferry to Kochi – a brief respite and opportunity to take photos. During the first few manic days, I took very few, and only once safely booked into a hotel. 5
new. Yet strange though we are, this doesn’t seem to affect or deter the Indian motorist. So desperately impatient he is to overtake. Nor is he deterred by minuscule chances: gaps in the oncoming traffic, fleeting moments for survival in the thundering oncoming traffic. When lorries perform such a manoeuvre there is no space for us on the road. The cyclist must be ever vigilant, ever ready to dive into the relative safety of gravel and dirt that lines the highway. I would like to describe these things and more but I just don’t posses the skill. I’m not sure who does. I fear that no matter how I try to sculpt these paragraphs, they won’t come close to conveying the thruth. I fear this place is beyond description. It is a place only realised with one’s own eyes.
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Nanjangud Temple at dusk.
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We were warned never to cycle at night; even in the day the trucks can be leathal and often don’t have brakes.
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Many people on motorbikes and scooters wear headscarfs to protect themselves against the strong pollution; so strong in fact, it prevents the sun from being seen as it sets on the horizon.
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Cableties & Tigers The going was slow. Collectively, we had two punctures in one day. And the constant need to swerve from the road also hindered our progress. I can only cycle as fast as Georgia, as I do not wish to leave her on her own. Therefore the formation of our group is as follows: Giles cycles ahead, often disappearing from view, whilst I stay behind Georgia in a futile attempt to protect her. At Gundlupet it became clear it was not possible to take the 1600 metre ascent to Ooty; an old British colonial town, nestled in a valley high in the mountains. To be honest, I have my doubts that the gruelling climb would have been possible even for Giles, let alone Georgia. Besides, it is possible that the police checkpoint, denoting the entrance to the National park, would have forbade us to cycle.
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The Hindu Times article reporting the search for the maneating tiger which, it seems, was more serious than we had earlier thought; three people had been killed and plantations had been closed because of the threat.
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One of the tigers, we were told, had recently turned maneater and locals are understandably nervous about tourists being eaten. And so at Gundlupet we hired a jeep, put one bike in the back and strapped the others to the roof. This a procedure we had successfully accomplished twice in a battered little Tata Indica; a hasty choice of vehicle, upon arrival from Munich. Blurry eyed and edgy, after our 12 hour journey, I had quickly learnt not to trust the Indian man’s strapping technique: the ‘taxi driver’ for want of a better word, tied his flimsy ropes in such a loose and ridiculous fashion that Giles and I almost instantly and simultaneously took over the operation. The driver at Gundlupet was no exception. He sprang onto the roof of his jeep with impressive agility and placed the first bike on its side; not a bad idea with only one bike but certainly not a good one with two.
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Georgia poses next to a rented Mahindra jeep and our prefered method of bike transportation. When we hired trucks, we travelled in the back with the bikes, thus saving time, effort and cableties.
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It was Giles at Bangalore who suggested our preferred method; strapping the bikes upside down in a vertical row; a system that, with rope and cable ties worked excellently. Cable ties, of which Giles had brought 200, turned out to be one our most valuable pieces equipment. By the end of the trip we had only 16 left. I used broken English and rather bad sign language to explain our technique to our Gundlupet driver. Eventually he understood but I watched with horror as he began to run a rope across my bike chain. Our agile driver looked rather displeased, as we were once again forced to take over, something that must be done with the correct mix of aggression and sensitivity. Why the driver of a jeep had so little skill in strapping is beyond me; but to be fair we cyclists are somewhat of an exception. To date, we have seen no others.
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Children of Ooty pose enthusiastically for photos.
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Woman in traditional dress, Ooty.
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Seriously Drinking Last night we stayed at a lodge on the beach; a shabby rather dilapidated place, even by Indian standards. It did, however, have a balcony overlooking the sea. This gave us the opportunity to enjoy beer with a view – a luxury in comparison to most of our evening drinks. Drinking so far in Southern india has been a sordid affair. Undertaken in filthy, dimly lit rooms, often in discreet alleyways. Bars, if you could call them that, are frequented only by men, this being a predominantly Muslim area of India. The walls of such places are half black with dirt and the floors, no better, are strewn with litter. They are serious, sometimes intimidating places (especially for Georgia): establishments devoid of creature comforts, designed for one purpose and one purpose only – serious drinking. It is almost impossible to get any kind of alcohol below 6 percent and our beer of choice is usually Kingfisher
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View from our dilapidated hotel at Chavakkad.
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premium. Not that the locals drink it. For those of whom have chosen the shameful practice of drinking hard liquor, often rum, is the drug of choice. The lights are often tinted red as if to hide the faces of the guilty patrons. Sometimes there are booths, complete with curtains for even further discretion. Huddled in groups of two or three they clasp their glasses with serious determination or blank apathy. No one but us seems to be enjoying the experience. Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing anyone laugh. However, when engaged in conversation, they smile and shake our hands, reassuring me with friendly eyes and reminding us of the non-violent nature of this continent. For Georgia this Muslim underworld is taking its toll and she hankers for western civilisation. Today she plans to ride behind us in a jeep. Giles and I will strip our bikes of panniers and will go on a 90 kilometre attempted dash for Kochi and civilisation.
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Georgia being somewhat of a pioneer at a drinking den; we never saw women in such places.
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Giles queuing for hard liquor with the locals, at what could be roughly described as an off licence. Alcohol was served through a metal grated hatch.
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Georgia looking longingly at the sea; as a woman, even dressed in a T-Shirt and long shorts, she felt somewhat underdressed.
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Giles upon arrival at the coast and our first chance to swim in the sea.
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Georgia at ‘Poo Beach’, so nicknamed by us after we discovered the locals slept on it at night and used parts of it as a toilet.
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Yet another dingy, low-lit drinking establishment. Although all three bottles are coloured differently, they are in fact, the same beer.
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Giles and Georgia enjoy a fresh pinapple upon arrival at ‘Poo Beach’.
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Racing to Paradise Civilisation at last! We failed to find a jeep or pickup truck prepared to drive slowly enough in formation. Their main concern was the amount of petrol the vehicles would consume at such a pace. They also estimated that the usually two-hour journey would take at least five hours. Eventually we found a taxi with a large enough boot to accommodate both our luggage and Georgia’s bike. This meant there would be no room for all three bikes should we run out of daylight; cycling at night would be suicide. Despite this, I was confident we would make the journey in good time, having gained some experience of such distances through Bavaria. We agreed on the relatively high price of 3000 rupees – at 30 pounds sterling the most we had paid for a vehicle to date. Giles took photos of the car number plate and driver, this being a nervous journey for Georgia alone, in a stranger’s car, albeit with us in sight.
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Kochi, the first westernised town we had encountered so far on the trip; full of tourists, but a welcome restpite from the ‘real India’ we had traversed.
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We started out, as planned, with the taxi driver behind but this proved to be impractical due to the traffic jams it caused. And so it was that I found myself racing to keep up, with often fleeting glimpses of our impatient driver. Luckily the road along the coast was flat, so I stayed in top gear and peddled hard. For me the journey was exhilarating. Free from weight and at last travelling at traffic speed I whizzed and weaved my way between buses, motorbikes, rickshaws and pedestrians. Georgia later told me we were often speeding along at 40 kilometres an hour. Looking back on it now, I was clearly behaving in an almost foolhardy Indian fashion. Was I turning native? Never mind, we made it and all is well that ends well. With roughly an hour for lunch, and many short stops, we achieved the 90 kilometres to Kochi in four and a half hours.
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India, although tourist friendly, felt rather unnerving at first due to the amount of attention we received upon arrival; not an uncommon occurance.
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Giles at Alleppey beach and finally with reception on his phone, a luxury we often did without. It was a surreal moment to hear him answering business calls: “Hello, Small Solar Company�.
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Locals enjoying an evening of football on the beach on Vypeen Island. To this day, I have no idea why they had a horse with them.
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Suspicions Overturned
It is about time I spoke about the people of this amazing country. In fact a detailed description is long overdue. Not just because they are Indian, but also because they are the most surprising of people. Unlike the American man I encountered in Florida, the Indian is nothing like the cliché I had in my mind. The anticipated begging has been few and far between and comparable, rather bizarrely, with that of Munich. Bartering, mainly for transport, has been conducted without aggression, and so far, touch wood, we haven’t encountered the ‘bad people’ the locals keep warning us of. Perhaps we have been lucky but I would have to lie if I didn’t write off the incredible friendliness and generosity of those we’ve encountered. The most extreme example of which was our chance meeting with a motorcyclist upon arrival at an unknown village five days in. At the time, I was feeling unnerved by an earlier encounter with towns folk. A serious bunch,
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Fishermen posing for photos on a beach at Vypeen Island. In all my years as a photographer, I never met such willing and accomodating subjects, without whom I would have struggled to complete this book. Thank you India!
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who looked concerned and angry at our choice of route. “Danger elephant!” They hastily shouted, as they gesticulated wildly in the direction we headed. However, Georgia and Giles seemed unperturbed, and after a futile group discussion on elephant etiquette, we found ourselves in the unmarked village, discussing directions. The motorcyclist was also very concerned for our safety. Attempting a brave face I showed him my scrawny muscles and lied about my strength. The motorcyclist looked unimpressed and shook his head. “You don’t fight with people,” he sternly explained. “You fight with animals! With bison and elephant!” This wasn’t helping my nerves, until that is, he offered us an escort. Giles and Georgia were not convinced and so despite their objections, and to their annoyance, I grasped at the offer.
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Georgia during a gruelling hill climb in the blazing sun. Giles, as was often the case, rode on ahead.
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After several kilometres our escort suddenly announced that his home was nearby and that he would love to have us for coffee. What could I say? I felt obliged, despite the obvious dangers; so to further annoyance and independently of the group, I riskily said yes. The motorcyclist and I turned off the main road and into the unknown; Giles and Georgia following uninformed behind. To be honest, it was a highly risky venture but with luck, more than judgement, a move well made. Soon we found ourselves in the smartest Indian house of a very tiny village, drinking coffee. It was a calm and civilised restpite after the madness of our travels; made even more reassuring by the introduction of the motorcyclist’s father, a keen cyclist himself; a kindly man with excellent English. “I like Reader’s Digest”, he announced with a smile as Georgia and Giles sipped at their tin cups, whilst I frantically attempted pictorial evidence. Despite our comfort we didn’t stay long; we had a long
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The motorcyclist’s father, serving coffee and smiles. How lucky we were.
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road ahead. Unbelievably the motorcyclist continued to escort us as far as we could safely go by bike. Then he arranged transport for us through the danger zone. When we parted he bought us ice cream and water. I must confess I assumed we would have to pay him for his troubles, but to my astonishment we never did. In the end he sacrificed half his day and even refused petrol money. Later we discovered an Irish photographer had recently been killed by an elephant on that very same road.
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Young man poses for the camera during a football match on the beach.
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Man with his family
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Ăœber groovy guy on the beach near Kochi.
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My inpromptu photo session did, I confess, disrupt the locals’ football match. Not that they seemed to mind. In fact they seemed to revel in the attention.
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Family seen from a river boat. Rather surreally, everytime I pointed my camera in their direction, people would smile or pose – a photographer’s dream.
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Children of Bangalore.
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Everywhere we went we were greeted with smiles and great interest, western cyclists being an oddity in India. Georgia, especially, was greeted with dare I say it, almost revere; a female, western, cyclist being even rarer.
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This woman, if I remember rightly, asked me to take her photo. Despite the daily uncertainties, India was such a pleasant change from Europe. Most Europeans would rather have their teeth pulled out, rather than pose for a stranger.
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Liquor & Cockroaches
We slept well last night: partly because we couldn’t find any beer, partly because we didn’t have to share our bed with cockroaches, as we had done the previous night. The lack of beer was caused by a Hindu holiday which forbids the sale of liquor. This was a strange concept for me, beer being almost obligatory during holidays in Munich. So we bribed a rickshaw driver to find us illegal brandy, paying him some money in advance; a risk we had so far never taken. He drove us two kilometres and then promptly vanished; leaving us waiting and wondering in the back of his rickshaw. Occasionally he would reappear looking suitably shifty, and we discussed the merits of our desperation for liqueur. We concluded eventually that if he failed to come up with the goods we should probably call it a day. Then without warning he was spotted hurriedly crossing the road, his hands clasping at his shirt, a baggy, loose-fitting item showing the unmistakable lumps of two small bottles.
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Hotel staff at the ‘Cockroach Hotel’; so nicknamed after Georgia spotted one sharing our bed.
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“Police raid!” He gasped nervously shoving the brandy into our hands before starting his engine with an impatient rev. I looked at the others as my brain tried to process exactly what he’d said. Not an uncommon occurrence, in this everchanging and unpredictable place. “Did he say police raid?” I said, scrunching up my nose, as he proceeded to run a red light and whizz around a corner. Soon we found ourselves alone with the evidence and back in the centre of town. That evening we drank brandy with Coke and Fanta; but none of us had the taste for it and we went to bed early in anticipation of tomorrow and undoubtably more madness.
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Leftover bottle of brandy next to a newspaper article reporting the police raid we were unwittingly involved in.
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A typical hotel toilet and shower area (that being the bucket to the right) of average standards; we had better but we also certainly had worse.
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The distinctive front of a typical Richshaw. 55
Trains, Trucks & Automobiles We are on our way home. The bulk of our cycling is now over and strangely now, I miss it. I miss the challenge. That edgy feeling that makes one feel alive, a feeling that increases in intensity the closer one is to death. I miss the sweat, the breeze of speed, the simplicity of a day driven by simple purposes: a need to get from A to B, a need to eat, a need to stay safe and the smell of warm, relaxing evenings. Beer never tasted so good, sleep never felt so deep, and life never felt so full. It hasn’t all been hard. We spent a day in luxury on a private boat we rented to explore the famous Kerala backwaters. But even then I missed the challenge and ended up swimming ashore, hitching a lift from a local cyclist, then another from a passing truck, in order to procure just two more bottles of beer. Did I need another drink? No. Did I enjoy the adventure. Yes.
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Georgia and Giles relaxing on a luxiourious boat we hired to explore the Kerala backwaters. At 3000 rupees each (roughly 30 pounds sterling) it was our most expensive mode of transport (not including airfare). It was, however, insane luxury compared with what we had been used to. We had private cabins, our own chef and a huge dining area at the bow.
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Other boats, similar to ours, also carrying tourists, of which there were many. At times this huge tourist driven flotilla seemed almost as mad and chaotic as the roads.
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Georgia kicking back and relaxing, free from the constant attention and scrutiny of often lechurous Indian men.
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Although extensively a cycling holiday, in the end we used many methods of transport. These including planes, busses, ferries, boats, trains, cars, trucks, jeeps, scooters and of course, our bikes. This we did both intentionally and due to necessity. I both endured and enjoyed every single one of them.
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Typical Indian trucks, brightly coloured and often adorned with religious symbols.
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A carriage for passengers who had reserved tickets in advance.
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Giles waits next to his bike at a railway crossing.
Hindu pilgrims in our train carriage, set aside for those who hadn’t resevered seats in advance – of whom there were many.
Our carriage before it became so full as to make movement and even photography almost impossible.
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Georgia cycles on.
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Lone cyclist on the banks of a river races our ferry boat.
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Cows are common in India, being both a necessity and sacred to many Indians.
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Catching the train north, we had to send our bikes as freight, a rather worrying and slightly risky gamble. However, the luggage department seemed very efficient, albeit using paperwork rather than computers for their inventories. Here the manger fills out the necessary forms as we wait for our bikes at Bangalore central station.
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Fear & Excitement What is the difference between fear and excitement? Why do some seek adventure, whilst others creature comforts? To some, this trip must seem a kind of madness, to others an experience, one not to be missed. What was it for me? And why did I do it? What is the point of a holiday fraught with difficulty and danger? No doubt some will never be persuaded of such a venture. Here, at least, in these few paragraphs I hope to persuade you. Fear is part of life. It is the inevitability we cannot escape. For years I tried, wrapping myself in metaphorical blankets; layer upon layer until their soft, safe warmth suffocated my soul in a claustrophobic cocoon of anxiety. Back then I dreamed of escape, of adventure and excitement, unaware and ignorant of its exact whereabouts. Always running directly in the opposite direction.
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Woman eyes my camera with suspicion; a look I’ve never enjoyed but must endure, as all street photographers must, from time to time.
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What is the difference between fear and excitement? It is control. It is mastery of ones emotions. It is staring at life, not looking away. It is the mastery of fear. Just as excitement is the brother of fear, so to must the risky leap of faith into the unknown, be the cousin of adventure. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread and yet is not ignorance a kind of bliss? We seek knowledge and so we should. But what is the destination without the journey? What is adventure without mystery? Many of the photographs in this book are technically wrong. I have many others from our trip that are not. So why did I pick these ones? The evenly exposed photograph shows us everything in meticulous detail. Wide depth of field brings everything into focus. Precise colour balance produces the perfect grey.
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Lone women on the bank of a river stands mysteriously in a wasteland on the phone.
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I’m sure with meticulous planning, or large sums of money, we could have avoided many of the mistakes we encountered along the way. The question I now pose and one I shall leave rhetorical is; would we really have wanted to? Adventure without risk is no adventure at all. Was I fearful at times? Damn right I was. Was I uncomfortable? Who wouldn’t, sleeping with cockroaches? Was I bruised by the journey? Did I sweat from the heat? Was I angry and tired by the constant challenge? Yes, yes, of course yes. But have you ever felt the wind rush, as your truck weaved its way round hairpin bends? Watched your friend dive to avoid the snaking trees? Did you ever wait for rides in the wilderness and wonder what lay beyond? Have you ever done something nobody else would? As I write these last few lines from the comfort of my desk, much of my adventure seems to me already a dream. Perhaps, occasionally even a nightmare. But I don’t believe you can have one without the other. Such is life and I intend to live it.
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Kollam station.
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Unknown group walking away from the banks of a river on our river boat journey to Kollam.
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