Mahabaleshwar to Badami

Mahabaleshwar is the strawberry capital of Maharashtra. Nothing anyone needs to know, but I thought why not? Many stores sell milk and strawberries. I didn’t have any. They also sold strawberry fudge which I sampled and didn’t love. I did have one of my best biryanis ever though. The cafe I found, called cafe Peter, was a strange place as many Indian cafes are. When a place calls itself a cafe, it often doesn’t even serve coffee. Often they open after noon and are a pizza fries and burger type of place, something to give Indians a western experience. Luckily, Cafe Peter had coffee, and it was even decent coffee. They also had Belgian waffles which they did a fantastic job with. That became a morning pleasure for me. I’m sure I was an odd sight. A white foreigner setting up in this random cafe every morning with my laptop, early before hardly anyone would ever think to come by, and using up all the wifi and power. But I think we all got along pretty well. It’s so rare to find a good work environment while on the road, so I thank the owners of Peter Cafe as well as divine providence for this gem. I think I spent 4 or 5 days in this cafe. It was here, one caffeinated morning, that I wrote another long and mean email to my friend. It had to be done. It had been stewing in my notes app too long and needed to be released. With this done, I hopped on my bike and left the little oasis.

After a full day of editing, I decided I was done with hotel life, and I needed to get moving, I was burning time in Mahabaleshwar. So I started what would become a pretty frequent trend for me in the coming weeks: working throughout the day, and cycling long into evening. I watched the sun set as I flew down the other side of the ghats, I had forgotten for a moment that I was high up, the past days climbs were faint memories to me. Now I was reaping the pleasure of that arduous climb. As dusk fell the terrain leveled out. I persisted into the night, turning on my headlamp and enjoying the accompanying breeze. I also found that I could go much faster at night. I’m not sure what atmospheric changes occur, but it felt as if the air was less thick, there was no drag and I could fly. I’ve always observed this effect, in New York at night I could always go fast but I attributed it to there being less traffic. Anyway, something to think about. I made it to the town of Satara that night and found a discounted hotel on booking.com in something that felt like a resort/wedding venue. The hosts were very accommodating and fed me a superb fish thali with multiple varieties and styles of fish. I was in heaven. My friend replied to my email with his own long email. I tried putting off reading it but I had to read it. These situations are so awkward. The feeling of seeing an email like that really makes my heart pound in my chest. He gave it all back to me. But I knew it was from love, and I knew there was now a foundation for a conversation. This was good. It was progress. He pointed out a lot of uncomfortable truths about my character that I need to work on. That I was working on, but that have been hard to continue working on. It’s hard to work on being a good friend when I’m mostly on my own and just having brief surface level interactions with people. The badness of a human can hide away for months before it’s encountered. Maybe that’s why I find it easier never to get to know anyone too well. Pathetic of me. We all have problems. You can’t get to know someone in a deep and meaningful way without unearthing a few. In the best case, it helps both parties improve. But the best case is hardly the most common case. Close relationships have a tendency to end poorly, especially if unspoken issues grow and imbalances deepen. However, I remain optimistic about the future of my relationships with my old friends and anyone else things have gotten weird with. It’s good for me to be so far for so long, that will ensure that healing takes place. 

When I left the safety of the hotel the next day, I quickly noticed my internet data wasn’t working. This could be a problem. The nearest Airtel was back in Satara but in the wrong direction. I figured this might be a small issue and decided to head on until I found an Airtel. This was risky. Very risky. I was basically in middle of nowhere India without internet. The only thing I could do was ask someone for a hotspot or hope to high heaven I found a wifi connection somewhere, which wasn’t likely to happen. Things got grim fast. I stopped by the first mobile phone shop I saw. I showed my phone to the guy working there, who spoke very little English, and he basically just started pushing every button he could. It was like an infant playing super smash brothers. By the end of it he had succeeded in not only achieving nothing, but he somehow deleted my eSIM, meaning there was no longer any trace of my Airtel plan. Great. Now I needed to start completely from scratch. I thanked him and went on my way. After another dozen kilometers or so I was in a town with an Airtel guy just hanging out by a kiosk on the street. I asked him to take a look at my phone. He told me the obvious, that I had no sim, and it was hopeless to explain my situation to him. He also repeated the ritual of turning everything off and back on just like the last expert had done. He told me my only hope was in a town called Sangli, only they would have an Airtel big enough to help me. Great. Sangli was maybe another 80k out, so I’d have to do a 120km day, but the road was flat enough, it wasn’t too hot out, and I needed my data in case work came my way. I can’t have these Australians thinking me unreliable. I charged ahead to Sangli. I passed through classic Maharashtra on small roads with smiling faces begging for selfies, frequent chai breaks, and enjoyed the zen of pedaling on long flat roads. Night settled in, and I continued to happily pedal along. It’s hard to explain, but in the day time I’m in India, and at night I’m in America. The night hides all the garbage and other unsightly things, and a cool breeze tells me I’m somewhere familiar, the air smells like the American countryside at night, and it calms me. India is pretty at night, just the way snowfall can make a post-industrial rustbelt city pretty for a moment. Around 9pm I made it to Sangli. I stopped by a small shop where a man was selling Paan, a minty sweet wrapped in a leaf. I asked if he knew of any hotels with wifi. Just as soon, a younger guy came by and told me he could help. The paan man gave me a paan on the house, just as a huge group of older men came by for paan, and of course I had to quickly entertain them all. The young man and I tore though town looking for a hotel. We found one, finally, that didn’t have wifi but the price was quite reasonable. The guy was really nice to me and we became friends on instagram. The hotel was pretty icky, but it was suitable for the night. It’s weird how sleeping in my tent and shitting in a hole can sometimes by so much more luxurious than the accommodations presented to me in India. Most hotels don’t seem to ever wash their bedding, or their toilets for that matter. The next morning I went to a more expensive hotel to use their wifi and eat their inclusive breakfast. Yum! My first tastes of south Indian breakfast food were not disappointing. After completing a few work assignments, I found my way to the Airtel to make sense of the world. Nothing is simple at Airtel. I was there for a while. Luckily they had wifi and AC so I was happy to stay there and work on edits while they tried to sort out my business. They were very kind to me and I appreciated their help. Obviously they have no idea how to help a foreigner with a SIM in Sangli, not exactly a hub for tourism, so they had to make a bunch of phone calls to superiors. With airtel, some stores only give you prepaid and others only give you post paid. This was a post paid store. My last plan had been prepaid. The guy who gave it to me cut some corners to give me the esim and had to download it on his own phone, and I guess it was already going to die out after 3 months, he must have assumed that would be the duration of my visa. Not to bore with details of course. So for post paid, I needed a local reference. I decided to call the friendly man I’d met last night. He was happy to help. After what felt like a couple hours of bureaucracy I had my postpaid plan ready to go. Happy days. It was getting to be evening as I set out from Sangli. I was right next to the Karnataka border and would surely cross over that night. I stopped at a bad biryani spot for dinner. It had this aesthetic I’ve been seeing a lot. This American fast food aesthetic that’s really popular with young Indians. But the food at these places is never even close to as good as the places that look like there’s no bathroom. I’ll continue taking my chances. 

Night took hold. Almost immediately a guy got to chatting me up. This happens just about constantly. A motorcycle pulls up, guy stares at me for a while, guy asks me where I’m from, where I’m going, stares at me more, than leaves. Sometimes they ask for a selfie, sometimes their English is good and we make more conversation. I try to be as nice as I can, even though I’m usually praying they leave me alone. This guy was nice, he invited me to a chai, I didn’t decline. We got to a place where a ton more people were and I got to be a celebrity for some 15 minutes while having a chai. Then I continued. I was losing time. In the night I could see lots of businesses where young men were hanging out, with flashing lights everywhere. They were bars. I hadn’t noticed bar culture up north, but here it was a thing. Kind of a gross thing to be honest. The vibes were weird in these places. Sometimes the men would shout and ask me to come in. Absolutely not. The weirdest thing about it was many of these places were hotels. Who was staying at these hotels and why? Maybe guy who got too drunk to ride home? Perhaps an underground gay sex ring? Perhaps a brothel, the women are hidden? They definitely weren’t travelers inns, that’s for sure. Another guy started following me. This was one of the more annoying cases where they keep speaking to me in their language and I keep telling them I only speak English. This went on for what felt like 10 minutes. He was really trying to ask me something. Finally, he took out his phone and showed me a picture of gay pornography. I thought he was joking so I laughed, but he looked at me seriously and kept talking. Then, convinced the last photo hadn’t worked, he showed me a picture of a penis. Now I felt very uncomfortable so I yelled at him to get lost and he did. Sometimes you have to put your foot down. I crossed into Karnataka shortly after. Hopefully fewer sex perverts here. I It wasn’t long before another man started tailing me. What a night! I could tell immediately this guys vibes were good, and he spoke decent English. He took me to a street food place that was still open and a few of his friends were hanging out. We had pane puri and some other thing that was scrumptious. They asked where I’d spend the night and I told them I had no idea, probably camp out. They insisted on taking me to some kind of government run hotel for workers. I said sure. It was just a few minutes away. The people there were very accommodating and let me pitch my tent in the front yard. Not the prettiest spot but I felt safe with these people. One guy was wasted and kept telling me to just sleep inside. I kept having to say no thank you. Then he got me some delicious butter chicken curry and I was very happy to have him around. Finally, I dosed off in my tent. Some night. 

In the morning I met my friend for chai before hitting the road. A good guy. Today I plan making it at least as far as Mudhol. I liked the sound of it. Mudhol. Wouldn’t be my first Mudhol. I road gentle hills in vast sweeping fields of sugar cane and hot peppers and all sorts of other stuff I don’t recognize. I passed Mudhol. I was on one. I thought maybe I might even reach Badami. But I couldn’t. The butt sores were back and screaming for mercy. Another guy started following me. He thought I was crazy for cycling at night with nothing but a dim headlamp and insisted on accompanying me with the light of his motorbike. I tried to tell him I was okay but he persisted, and when it comes to persistent Indians one must always surrender lest they face the wrath of disappointing a well intentioned person. We went on for about 10km, attempting to chat over the sound of the engine and with the limited English the man had. He told me he could find me a good place to camp. We came to a poor family’s home and they showed me a level area that was under construction. The places Indians think make good camping sites are absolutely wild. An actual good campsite is a dangerous snake pit where I’ll be murdered or raped and a good campsite is industrial waste land right off the road next to bright lights and peoples homes. But again, can’t refuse, I’m under the mans hospitality now. So I meed the family, we make good, and I set up the tent. But I don’t go to sleep. I have a dinner date. The man takes me 8 kilometers down to town where we go to, you guessed it, one of those sketchy men only bars, despite me telling him several times I don’t drink. He asks me one last time as we sit, and the answer is still no. I get a sensible Dahl tadka, jeera rice, and curd, a timeless classic, and we share this as he takes down a whiskey mixed with none other than bottled water. He had tried getting it with ice because I told him that was how I like it, but this place had no ice. Could you imagine trying to pass for a bar and having no ice? Sad place. But that’s how it goes. He picked up the bill. Again, I tried, I failed. This guy. What a gentleman. And no weird stuff either. He dropped me back off at my home and I went to bed. Proper.

I woke to what was becoming a sad habit of rushing to find a place to unload a cartoonish mound of soft stool. This was basically my new morning routine. It really bummed me out. To all those reading this who have good digestion, don’t take that for granted. The joy I get from the rare well formed and non-urgent bowel movement is spiritually fulfilling to say the least. I have to get better. It’s really messing with me, but things could be worse. It’s not debilitating in anyway. Just mildly embarrassing and inconvenient. Life has given a whole lot more people a whole lot worse of a hand and it does me well to remember. I was pretty worn from my heroic night time stretches, and luckily Badami was an easy 30km away. Here I could rest and check out the crags. I was eager to go vertical.