Coasting the Konkan with David

December 27, 2011 - January 9, 2012



Walking around Mumbai, we stumble upon an antique store. The owners are very friendly and are eager to show us around even though it is clear that we won't buy anything. One of the patrons gives me a quick lesson on Ganesh. Ganesh's head was cut off by Shiva. When Shiva realized that Ganesh was his son, he quickly replaced Ganesh's head with the one of an elephant. Ganesh is the remover of obstacles. His multiple arms hold attributes: the coconut and lotus flower are symbols of purity. A lover of sweets, Ganesh can be seen holding sugary treats. At some point, Ganesh needed to write down something quickly and could not wait for someone to bring him a pen. So, he cut off his right tusk to use it as a writing implement. His vehicle is the mouse, which I'm guessing means that he uses mice to travel around in this world (please don't hesitate to correct me). Being the remover of obstacles, Ganesh is a very popular in capitalist India. Hopefully he can remove some of the garbage and put it where we can't see it. Just like we do in the first world.

Michèle comments: I was thoroughly captivated by the owners describing the antiques. Like a child in Kindergarten at story time. There were ornate door frames and side panels of the huge temple chariots. There were many carvings, big and small. One piece was a large sandlewood carving of Ganesh in a reclining pose, his rotund belly encircled by a cobra belt. With the broadest of grins and dancing eyes, the taller of the two owners described the details of that carving of Ganesh like he was talking of an old friend. I want to find a copy of the reference book they had in the shop: "Living Wood: Sculptural Traditions of Southern India". I just wish the shop owners could pop out of the book and make those pieces come alive as they did for us that day. The antique showroom was in the basement of the Jehangir Art Gallery if you want to find the place yourself.

Back at the airport, David finally gets his bike from customs. As he opens the bike box he yells:
- It's show time!
After which about twenty airport employees gather around to watch us assemble the bike.



Once the bike is assembled, we ride out of the airport shining like royalty. For the third time, we ride into downtown Mumbai, this time for another three day visit.



It's once again sensory overload with its traffic, smells and the exotic poverty.



Michèle comments: In all fairness to Mumbai, I want to add that Benoit's drawing could be depicting a scene in Canada. Just choose a large city there and you wouldn't have to look far to find someone passed out on the sidewalk with people hurrying past on their way to their busy lives. Perhaps with less garbage strewn on the streets in the Canadian scene. Perhaps not. As Benoit mentioned, first world countries like Canada put the garbage where we can't see it. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes we don't give a second thought to how much garbage we generate. Like the use of toilet paper. When buying a roll of toilet paper in Mumbai, we wondered why it cost so much. The shop owner set us straight explaining that it is a luxury item in India. Right then and there, we decided to give up the ol' t.p. and just use water. I'll be the first to admit that it is easier said than done.

One day was spent going to Elephanta Island where you can see ancient caves containing large statues of various Hindu gods. Despite the large crowds, the site is fairly impressive.



However, like good capitalists, the Indians don't miss an opportunity to make a buck: on our way there we realize that the entrance fee is 25 times more for foreigners. You can think of it as a 2500% tax with a dash of racial profiling. The amount only adds up to 5 dollars but it's the principle that gets me. After a good rant and still pissed off about the new found fact, an Indian tourist asks me if he can take a picture of us. I tell him that it will cost him a hundred rupees. He gives me a confused look and laughs nervously. He didn't end up taking the picture.



The next day was spent at Mumbai's court house. In order to get in you have to wear pants and leave your camera at the entrance. Once inside it is difficult to know if the place is crumbling or if it is being renovated: there is rubble everywhere. Tarps covering windows and doorways and you have full access to any room or stairwell. Not really knowing where to go or what to check out we start going up random stairwells and walking down various corridors. Some of the offices are jam-packed with papers and folders stacked like mini skyscrapers. At some point we end up on the roof to go down yet another staircase that brings us to the other side of the building. Having a blast we keep going with our visit, when all of a sudden, an aging security guard, half asleep in his chair, jumps up and starts running towards us yelling that we are in a restricted zone. Very nervous and agitated, he escorts us back down to the entrance, yelling at the guards at the various check points along the way: the ones that were supposed to deny us entrance. Back at the main gate, the security guard goes in to talk to the chief who doesn't seem to really care about anything. After explaining to them what I just explained above, we are set free to keep going with our visit.



A little disgusted with the double economy, we decide to skip the Ajanta caves and head south towards Goa. Our journey starts with another boat ride across the bay: the same one we took the week before. This time, bikes are not allowed. After a ten minute argument with a set of security officers, the bikes are magically allowed again. While on the boat, someone has the great idea to start throwing potato chips at sea gulls. Before long, the boat gets swarmed with birds and all the excrements that come with it. Once the bag is empty the man discards the package overboard before getting another one to keep the fun going. But, like all fun it eventually gets boring and the man sits back down again. The arm wrestle with my bad eye cover rages on.

We start cycling down the coast. It's around New Years and hotel prices are through the roof. This is where we encounter some Indian generosity. At one guest house we meet a set of young guys. Ten of them are sharing a small room. After starting up a conversation, we tell them that there is double pricing going on. They are paying half of what the hotel wants to charge us. This prompts one of them to step up and offer to pay the difference. We tell him that it's very generous but we can't accept: we will try our luck somewhere else. Down the road, we bite the bullet and check in to another overpriced hotel. The same conversation starts up with another guest. This time, when we tell him the rate we are paying, he says nothing but offers us a bottle of whisky. After this day of cycling it was much needed.

Difficult to find accommodation during the holidays here in India. At some point during the ride, we see a sign that says "Camping". We go and investigate and we are led through a field and onto a beach. Once at the camp site, we can see several tents and tables. We figure that they are trying to sell the concept of a camping resort. When we ask him the price for one night the guy give us a quote that defies comprehension. One hundred and fifty dollars per person, per night. After a good laugh we walk away.

We end up spending New Years in Murud. Partying not being on our agenda, we do the count down in our sleep. I'll spare you the details of what the beach looked like after a News Years Eve party. Most people were heading home but some were staying an extra day to get in a few more cricket games. On the beach, car and motorcycles are doing a hundred clicks on the packed sand with people hanging out of windows and riding on the roof; insane .. just insane.



Michèle comments: One morning in Murud we go in search of breakfast. Near the beach, there are many street stalls selling a variety of food. In one, we thought we saw a woman making "poha", a flavourful breakfast dish of rice flakes and chillies and spices. Turmeric gives the poha a lovely yellow colour. Spying a crate of eggs next to her pans, we thought that we should up the protein content of the meal. So we ask if we can have some fried eggs too. The woman looked confused. But she did as we asked and soon presented us with our breakfast meals. It turns out that she was making scrambled eggs with chillies and spices. No wonder her confusion! We had just asked to have eggs with our eggs.

We stay one more night in Murud and head out the next day: finally, some traffic-free riding. As we wind through coastal roads, we stumble upon an ancient temple. No crowds or entrance fee here. The place is deserted. We park our bikes and take our time walking around the site.



The unbeaten track that we're following has a series of rivers that are linked by ferry. With no track for our journey, the GPS is next to useless; negligence on my part. We end up wasting a day going around in a circle trying to find one of these ferries. However, people are very helpful and they generally point you in the right direction. With David it's easy; he'll go up to anyone in a flash to ask directions.



Michèle comments: I had heard some 'bad press' about the kids in India, how they swarm around your bicycle, touching everything, switching your gears and generally crossing WAY into what we Westerners perceive as personal space. But what we experienced with the school kids in India was quite the opposite. As we cycled the small back roads, invariably we'd pass groups of kids as they walked to school. The young boys would race us, trying to run alongside as long as they could. A difficult endeavour when they were carrying knapsacks that looked heavier than them. But never did they grab at our bicycles or impede us in any way. If we stopped at the roadside for any reason, yes they would swarm us. Yet they were so polite in their swarming that it was even a pleasure to be amongst them.

Around these parts, getting lost is okay. The jungle offers a free show as we ride by gangs of monkeys, peacocks, jackals and all sorts of exotic vegetation. With less population there is less refuse and your imagination can run free. I try to imagine this place hundreds of years ago, when purity was not limited to lotus flowers and coconuts.

As we gently pedal down the coastal road the day-dreaming gets to us. While David and I are cycling side by side, David cuts in front of me. I swerve hard to the left and end up falling on the asphalt. Luckily not much damage. Just a few scrapes and bruises.



Camping has become difficult. The nights are cool and we don't have our sleeping bags. We could buy blankets but David and Michèle seem reluctant to camp. It's too bad because there are lots of interesting places to set up. When camping is not an option you are dependent on guest houses and hotels. This can be very stressful. One evening we get to a hotel tired and hungry: the hotel is full and it's getting dark. This is one situation that I absolutely hate about travelling; to the point of having thoughts of going home. We get word that there is another town with several hotels. It's only fifteen kilometres but Michèle and I are finished. The next logical step is transport.



David decides to cycle it. Michèle and I pile our bikes and panniers into two auto rickshaws and get dropped off at the shittiest hotel yet: we are told it is the best one in town. No matter, it has a bar next door! An hour later, David shows up with his classic open line:
- Namaste!
or hello in Hindi.
Glad to be taking a load off we head to the bar which is also a restaurant. All three of us sit down amongst the heavy drinkers; not a single woman in sight and not a single guy eating dinner. A few minutes later, a nervous waiter comes up to us:
- You must go to the family room he says.
I imagine mom, dad and the kids going out for shooters but in reality the middle ages are not far behind: women are not allowed in the bar.

Michèle comments: It barely phased me that we were shuffled out of the bar and into the family room, all because of me - gasp - a woman in the bar/restaurant. I was too tired to care. The night before we had happened upon the nicest hotel room we've stayed in yet: a little jewel of a place in a village so small that it consisted of only one intersection. The contrast with the hotel we now found ourselves in was shocking us to numbness. I can't find the words to describe the filth on the curtain in our room. David in his eternal cheeriness chirped, "Oh I've seen worse!!" But still, he went out to investigate the other lodging options, returning with a sigh of resignation to announce that yes this was the nicest hotel in town. It was strangely fitting to see this misspelling on the hotel entrance wall:



On the subject of english, I love the beautiful formality of the english we hear spoken in India. A man exclaimed when he heard that we had cycled in Mumbai, "There are not many who would have the courage to dare it." Then, there are the charming mispellings on signs that have english in them, like the one advertising "Engine repair and spear parts", or so many in the menus:
- Creeps with chocolate sauce
- Banana filters with chocolate rum sauce
- Massed potatoes
- Green piece masala, or Green peace masala.

We wake up early. I feel like shit due to a lingering cold. There was also a four hour coughing fit in the middle of the night. As we pedal out, my legs feel like lead weights. I keep radio silence as I try to muster up enough energy to keep moving forward. At a rest stop we see several cyclists off in the distance: slowly inching their way towards us. Then we realise that it's our friends from Turkey and Iran. Geoffroy and Elodie are heading north on their spaceship tandem. We spend an hour exchanging stories and split once again.

Jumping right into it in India

December 14 - December 26

For us, India starts at the Muscat airport where we jump through the familiar hoops; pack equipment, x-ray, check in, customs, boarding, flying, customs again, collect our stuff and find out that everything survived: all the worry was for nothing. At the Mumbai airport, it's the usual hustlers trying to push a hotel or taxi. It's six in the morning, we haven't slept all night and we have no hotel booking. Michèle is not a happy camper. This means it's up to me to find a hotel. At a reservation kiosk, I manage to book a room. It's expensive and not great but hey ... we're in India! In our hotel room we pass out. Several hours later we wake up to a symphony of car horns. As I look out the window, the first thing I notice are the women in crop-tops and colourful saris; drowning out the black cloaks of less colourful religions.





The next morning, I pour a cold beer into the thermos and we set off on our first ride in India. Instead of shying away from what we've been dreading, namely people and traffic, we decide to jump into it and ride 30 kilometres into downtown Mumbai. After 5 minutes it's the sound of crushing plastic as a guy on a motorbike gets plowed head on by a car. Luckily he got up.

After the squeaky clean, black and white of Oman it's a total shock; hundreds of years of clutter and accumulated junk. Generations of uncollected garbage. There are so many things packed so tightly that it looks sculptural. If Hindus have a god of art, in a stroke of genius he must have created Mumbai. Here, there are about as many cars as there are people. The traffic is retarded as the guy behind honks at the one in front of him. On top of it we have to remember to stay left. We follow the GPS south towards downtown, trying not to get distracted by the hundreds of photo ops.



After several hours of riding, we pull off for a breather. I crack open the thermos and pour myself a cold glass of beer. It's not long before some kids come up to ask for money. Among them is a girl that speaks a bit of English. At the sight of the thermos she says:
- Give me tea!
I tell her that this tea is not for kids. As I put away the thermos, she must have smelled the contents and says:
- Hey, that's not tea that's beer!
As we cycle away, she chases us, asking for anything she can think of. She finally gives up after we pick up speed.



We finally get to Colaba; the tourist area. We got word of a hotel from a friend who stayed there the week before. Therefore we figure it must be good. It is cheap and well located, so we decide to take the room. Everything seemed fine till we get a rude awakening in the morning. Upon inspecting our mosquito nets we both find bedbegs stuck to it. I guess they were trying to get back to the mattress but started climbing the nets instead. Some of them are still engorged with blood, making a nice spash on the mesh as we crush them. I didn't think the filthiness would catch up to us this fast.



Forced out we check in to a much pricier hotel that is spotless. It's got wifi so I make a post on the Lonely Planet forum thinking I am doing a good deed warning other travellers about the hotel with bedbugs. What I end up getting are arrogant, mocking remarks from some of the forum's veterans. I have developed some frustration with Lonely Planet over the years as well as the thread pollution on their forums. I send a quick complaint email to Lonely Planet but get a polite middle finger. So, instead of getting in a pissing contest, the following image came to mind.



It seems that the poverty and homelessness we didn't see in Turkey, Iran and Oman has converged here; probably due to sheer numbers but I'm sure there are other reasons. Wild camping is not a problem for the ones stuck in the bowels of India's social ladder: just set up wherever you like. However, no fancy tents here. Just garbage and hard pavement. Shanty towns, packed like mismatched lego blocks, bursting at the seams with refuse. Half naked litters of kids, frassled hair and covered in soot, blend in with the dirty plastic bags by the side of the highway. The nouveau riche, shining like royalty, drive by, talking on the latest iPhone. We've all seen it before. Except this time you can't change the channel. On a bicycle, you don't miss out on anything. Stuck in the middle with sensory oveload; we are not sure whether to cry or take a picture. It almost seems like these people are being punished. For the final curtain, just as I thought the misery couldn't get lower, we pass by a large garbage can next to a fish market. A small child pops out of it holding a used razor. He is playing with it as though he's found a new toy. It's solidarity for Oscar the Grouch: at least one kid is suffering his fate.



In Colaba there is a sports bar where all the white people go to get drunk. The bar was actually hit by the Mumbai terrorist attacks several years ago. The contrast with its surroundings is mind-blowing. Outside you have kids playing in the gutter. They are so dirty that they look one colour. At the mid-range of the social ladder are the security guards standing outside: protecting the shiny teeth and the laughter that rivals with the honking outside. The high-tech security generally involves a squeeze of your knapsack and a waving motion to go in. I feel safer already. As we finish our overpriced beer and head back to the hotel we walk by yet another security guard at another establishment. He is patiently waiting for the next terrorist attack. He is also about 4 foot fuckall and looks about 90 years old; his legs about as thick as his billy stick. Down the street we burst in laughter thinking how cute he looks.

As we wait for our friend David to arrive, we decide to take a ride down the coast for a few days. From the Gateway of India you can take a boat to the other side of the bay; bypassing the whole city. Although no-one here seems to celebrate Chrismas, the holidays are in full swing. This means lots of traffic from India's nouveau riche heading down to the beach in their brand new SUVs. At the beach, they're all clustered in one area. The rest of the 4 kilometre beach is virtually empty. There are all sorts of activities. You can get pulled by a jet ski, go on a calèche ride, ride a camel or get pulled by car with a parachute strapped to your back. All this is done with complete disregard for safety. The jet skis rush in at full speed to where everyone is swimming. The Indians don't seem to care though. Everyone is having a great time, fully clothed when they swim.





Michèle comments: We were two weeks in advance of our friend David's arrival. Instead of it feeling like killing time, it was a chance to adapt to India after being in Oman. There, virtually no-one was on the streets. Here in India, the streets are jam packed with people, bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, auto rickshaws, taxis, buses, goods carrier trucks, and of course cows. Oman was so clean it was ridiculous: marble walkways buffed to such a shine that they looked wet. Whereas the filth and dirt of Mumbai is so over the top that you almost think you're on a movie set, because this shit can't be real. The traffic is insane, but now I am glad that I had some practice in crazy traffic in Iran. David has already cycled in India. In 2004, he went from Chennai around to Goa until his bike broke down. He told us that cycling in India is a challenge but one that is worth it. That is reassuring. It also reassures us that he agreed to return to India so that he could join us for a few months of our trip.

On our way down the coast we stop in a town called Alibaug. Next to the hotel is a restaurant where we are the only tourists. At the table beside us is an east Indian family from Toronto. After chatting for 20 minutes they invite us for dinner. Once at their place, they tell us a little bit about India. Apparently there used to be way more garbage 20 years ago. Something I didn't think was possible. Also, the poverty was worse: you always had a good 10 people following with their hands out. Finally, they tell us to see India with the good eye and to keep the critical one covered. I'll try. We end up having a great time eating a home cooked meal with lots of beer.



Michèle comments: A funny coincidence meeting that family from Toronto. Their daughter had just graduated from university. I asked her where she studied.
- Waterloo, she said.
- Me too! What subject?
- Mathematics, she said.
- Me too!
Then I nearly fell off my chair when I found out that she is also left-handed. "I don't believe in coincidences," said her mother. Now that I had met a leftie in India, I asked about eating with my left hand. I should not touch food with my left hand, she told me, but it's okay if I am using utensils.

The next day we cycle farther south. The traffic is pretty bad. As a shady spot comes up I stop for a water break and wait for Michèle. This is when I see something that I've been dreading. Everybody passing me is motioning me to go back. Something has happened to Michèle. I race back with nightmare images in my head; am I going to have to scrape her of the road with my titanium spork. As I turn the corner to the final straight away, I can see her sitting in a chair with a crowd around her; a woman massaging her hand. Her panniers clipped another bike and she fell. It ended up being nothing serious; a few scratches on her hands and no damage to the bike.

Michèle comments: I was just getting over a cold. My sinuses had cleared so I was itching to ride. But I guess that I wasn't as steady on my bike as I should have been. One of my rear panniers clipped a bicycle that was parked by the side of the road. I couldn't recover, so... crash, down I went. As I was lying on my back in the middle of the road, I thought, Shiiiiiiiit someone is going to run over me. Then I looked up and saw the crowd creating a barrier around me. A man helped me to my feet, another pulled my bicycle up and took it to the side of the road, yet another jumped on his bike to ride ahead to find Benoit. I wasn't injured, just a bit stunned by the experience. I heard someone say, "Sit down, please". So I sat. And a woman came up and started rubbing my hand. It was a simple gesture but it made my eyes all misty.

The Indian government should invest in a nut clipping campaign. Stray dogs are a huge problem here and life for these animals is tough. It's a sorry sight really. Most of them will come to you wagging their tails if you call them over. After a day of riding we stop at a guest house by the road side. As we look at the room we can see a dying puppy outside. Barely standing, the little guy passes out several times to finally give us a dying look: the same facial expression as a human being in agony. As we walk away, he stares off into nowhere with some strange breathing sounds. We didn't end up taking the room. Besides, the owner wanted four times what it was worth.



After several days, it's time to head back to Mumbai to meet up with David. Back at the pier to catch the boat back to the Gateway of India we can observe another genius of Indian anti terrorism. A security guard, chilling out at the snack bar with his gun resting on the potato chip rack. At first, I thought the gun was a toy and almost picked it up. Then, I burst out laughing which prompted the guy to get up to retrieve his prize possession.



Back in Mumbai, we do the whole ride in reverse to meet up with David at a hotel near the airport. He shows up late at night with all his panniers and no bike.

O my! Oman!

November 25 - December 13

In the last post we were in Iran doing something we started calling The Great Shiraz Limbo. I guess we needed boredom. I'm not sure why. We could have watched the paint peel on the walls of our hotel room but instead we listened to the car alarms and the honking; all the while breathing the exhaust coming in through our window. It would have been great to follow the sunset with the crew we met in Shiraz but some things in life are not meant to be. We ended up patiently waiting for our flight to Oman. Some might find that incomprehensible ... so do we.

The Great Shiraz Limbo comes to an end with a final ride to the airport. The traffic was the usual but someone made a rude gesture to Michèle: A macho guy licking his finger and pushing it into his fist. Instead of throwing a rock at his windshield, I file it under "It's time to go". At the airport, the staff is totally confused about the bikes; how? why? ... where you come from? Once we get our point across that we want to pack them up and put them on the plane, the check-in process goes without a hitch. Once on the plane we say goodbye to frowning Mr Khomeini and say hello to the friendly face of Sultan Qaboos.





Michèle comments: Our flight from Shiraz was on Iran's Aseman Airlines. Mention that airline to anyone in Iran and you'll probably get what we got: a frown, a cringed look, and a comment about how terrible it is. Already that made us kind of nervous. Add to that the impossible task of finding out Aseman's baggage policy. We just wanted to know if there would be a charge for our bicycles, and if so, how much. Two visits to Aseman's office in Shiraz, one visit to their cargo office at the airport, and finally, many calls from the airport's Flight Information desk, and still we had no clear answer. I guess that most Iranians don't travel with sports equipment, let alone bicycles. As we went to check in for the flight, we held our breath, hoping that we'd have enough rials left to cover for the bikes. The check-in agent barely glanced at our bicycles, and handed over our boarding cards. No charge for the bikes! In the end, the flight was super comfortable and everything arrived in Muscat as it should.

At the Muscat airport, the first thing we get is a 45 euro per person visa fee. Then, we meet up with my parents for two weeks of pampered luxury that includes beer and wireless internet.

Oman is modern and everything looks new; like someone just won a mega lottery and decided to build cities. The predominant colours are white and black. Buildings are white, men are dressed in long white gowns and women are in black. Only the tourists are multicoloured. With subsidized gas five times cheaper than in Europe, Oman is extremely car-centric. On the highway, as the buildings whiz by the car window, we can observe the familiar sights; Burger King, KFC, Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds; all the shit food you could possibly want. The place is spotless. Hedges are trimmed and there's even people sweeping the highway as Mercedes, Hummers and large SUVs barrel down the road.





Everyone has their cheap labour. The US has the mexicans; In Iran it was the Afghanis and here it's the Indians. As we line up to get our passports stamped, standing behind several squeaky clean financial types, there is another lineup: Indians waiting to get their irises scanned. Not sure why. Probably for some security reasons.

One of the tourist attractions in Oman is the grand mosque. It is brand new and was a gift to the nation from the Sultan. It is a marvel of craftsmanship and gives you an idea of what old mosques must have looked like when they were new. The details are uncanny: from stone engravings to door handles, everything is hand sculpted. The house size chandelier in the main prayer hall is hanging over the biggest carpet in the world; 60 by 70 metres and was hand woven by 600 women: it took 6 years to complete. Run your finger on any ledge, you will not find a speck of dust as the cheap labour scrub away at the place 24/7.





Oman looks a lot like the anti atlas of Morocco. The most interesting are the wadis: deep gorges with lush palm trees. There are many of them but one of the most famous is Wadi Shab. We walked up Wadi Shab, avoiding the self-proclaimed tourist guides that do nothing more than walk along with you and ask you for 10 rials (about $25) at the end of the day.



Michèle comments: A cyclone hit Oman in 2007. We heard that it ripped through Wadi Shab, causing huge boulders to fall and wiping out a lot of the palm trees. Apparently before the cyclone, the wadi was ten times as amazing as it is now.

My mother compiles list of sites to see from Lonely Planet's vague and questionable suggestions. Because of this list we end up doing a lot of driving. Something we are not used to. However, we're playing tourist and what better way to do that than a desert excursion. The desert camp is about 20 kilometres into the sand dunes, away from roads. This is where I realize what's been missing in my life: silence.



There were moments where I could hear rushing blood in my ears; anxieties vanish and life becomes contemplative. Unfortunately it doesn't last and the next day, after a quick camel ride, we are back on the road.



Michèle comments: Hmmmm, was there a connection there: I walk away into the sunset and Benoit gets the silence he has been missing?! It was astounding how silent the desert was. The dunes stretched as far as the eye could see. They are shifting eastward about 2 metres a year. Within five years, the desert camp will have to move or be buried in sand. One of the Bedouin family who runs the camp took us on a dune ride to watch the sunset. It was like sand driving was similar to driving in deep snow. Except, you wouldn't drive over a snow cliff, I don't care how good your tires are. But our Bedouin driver pitched us over sand cliffs in the 4WD truck. I thought my eyes would pop out of my head in fright. The more we freaked out, the more daring he became. Or so it seemed.



The Omanis are doing a good job preserving architectural design. Many of the new constructions are done to blend with the old. Even the roof water tanks and air conditioner covers blend with the surroundings. The ancient sites, which are mostly forts, are well renovated. The one we visited, Jabreen Fort, is totally open to the visitor. You walk up any stair and crawl into any cubby hole. There are many rooms with carpets where you can sit and relax. Your imagination is free to travel back in time and imagine what life was like back then.



After several more days of driving we say goodbye to my parents and go back to our nomadic life. Before we do so, we jettison some equipment including our sleeping bags: Our fleece and jacket will be enough to keep us warm at night. No so. The nights are actually quite cool and we end up freezing our asses off. We end up buying a blanket and using the large plastic bag used to package our bikes to keep us warm at night: not too fluffy.

Michèle comments: A strange feeling to be on our own again. Sure, we weren't used to being in a car so much, but we loved having Florence and Greg there to spoil us rotten. The memory of comfy guesthouses was still fresh in our minds. That made it harder to take sleeping under a plastic sheet like hobos.

We cycle about 100 kilometres from Muscat to Wadi Al Abyad: yet another dense palm forest amidst a desert background. Time seems to stop here. The rustling palm leaves and the occasional buzzing fly are the only things breaking the silence.



At some point a man shows up to say hello. His hobby is to walk around the wadi shooting birds with a pellet gun. Trying to make some conversation, he shows us pictures of his new car, occasionally stopping to shoot a bird. Usually this would piss me off but I'm not at home. With some broken English he tell us that it's much nicer farther up the wadi where there are pools of water. The call to prayer comes on and he walks off to go pray for the souls of the poor birds that he killed.



In the evening, we wait for our full moon to appear but it does not. The night is pitch dark and the last call to prayer echoes through the palm trees. A I rush out of the tent for an emergency evacuation of the ten samosas we had for lunch, I look up at the sky to see a lunar eclipse.

The next day we decide to venture up the wadi to find the pools that Pellet Gun Guy was talking about. With enough food and plenty of water, we push our bikes for several hours in search of a nice spot to camp. The scenery is beautiful: water, palm trees and the desert. Unfortunately, the wadi is not as clean as the highways. Every camping spot has mounds of garbage left behind by weekend warriors. Some of these sites are so dirty that you can't even approach them due to the rancid smell. I fail to understand how people think it's normal to go into nature and leave behind mountains of litter. Fortunately, we find a spot that we were able to clean up.





Well that's all she wrote in Oman. It's time for us to move on to "Bizarro Oman": India. Will it break us?

All of our Oman photos are here.