Dhulian

December 7, 2010

more ancient mosques in the Guar area

It's 8:00 and grey and the road south is a bit busy with trucks, but as it's not too far - they say 10 km - to get to the turnoff, I might as well get it over with.

Now I don't know what irks you, but strangers on my back wheel does it for me. I reckon it triggers some primeval instinct and what usually happens is I either put it in the big ring and blow them away or brake and then follow them - see how they like it. They clearly don't and soon become anxious and look over their shoulder, then stop.

It's usually teenage boys and I know they're just curious, but it irks just the same.

Well, there's a guy on my rear wheel, riding his clapped-out Hero bike, which is squeaking and rattling away. My rear-view mirror tells me he's the one I asked if Gual is this direction, so maybe he's guiding from behind. He keeps gesturing forward whenever I look back, so on I pedal.

It feels cool at this time, but it's still okay in short sleeves and shorts, while he's wrapped up ready for a blizzard.

If it was 10 km, it should take less than 30 minutes, but I've been riding for nearly an hour as we approach houses and the road is lined with garbage that's being sorted by hand into recyclable piles. There're all sorts of broken plastic items - brushes, containers and other domestic crap. What a job.

The guy that was behind is now nowhere to be seen. Where am I?

"Guar," I ask and the people around here pronounce it like those excited South American football commentators - GOAAALLLLLLL... They point back and say it's about 7 km away, a turnoff I asked the guy tailing me about and got a 'carry on' gesture.

If it wasn't for him, I'd more than likely be one front pannier missing. Let me explain what happened.

When I glance in my mirror, he isn't on my wheel and instead is far back, about 100 metres behind, standing on the verge. Perhaps he's fallen off or something, so I stop. It's then I notice the truck behind me has pulled up too and in front of it, right in the middle of the road, is my right-side front pannier, which must have just bounced off after not been clipped on properly. I retrieve it, undamaged and its contents okay. I wouldn't have known otherwise as my handlebar-bag obscures most of that wheel area. The guy catches me up and on we go...

Anyway... after a U-turn, large rectangular trays of something pale-yellow are being placed in a playing field beside this side of the road. They look like flowers from here and I need to look.

Closer, I can see they are cocoons of silk, a golden yellow. They are so light; almost weightless and I take some photos and by the time my shutter has clicked twice I'm surrounded by inquisitive locals. The question of where I can buy silk cloth is met with a blank response until the one (basic) English speaker mentions some names that mean nothing to me. Companies perhaps.

They talk about Maldah, but I'm not going back, but do ride the way I just came and get to the turnoff. It's only about 4 km - my estimate is about 6 km south of the city.

This road is wide and free of traffic, but the surface is mixed. Not too bad at first, then it deteriorates and gets rutted and dusty. There are one or two trucks and that's all it takes to create a dirty beige cloud as they whiz by.

The surrounding terrain is dead flat.

A guy working at an old sewing machne on the edge of the route is outside his shack and this seems like a good chance to get my torn merino wool top repaired. He shows me a patch with 'Oxford' embroidered on it that will cover the hole. Strange, but it'll do. When he's done sewing it in place, I get him to re-stitch the shoulder seams and under the arms, as there are slight tears there too. He makes a good job but won't take any money for his work. What a guy. And shy with it... didn't even want his mug-shot taken.

It's a good job I stopped as the men stood around point me back 50 metres when I ask for Gual. The turnoff is a small lane and down it about one kilometre or less is the first of various archaeological sites. It's surprising they aren't signposted; a bit like Padua yesterday.

There aren't and other tourists around and without a guidebook, I'm pretty much in the dark and simply go where I'm pointed.

The first place up is a mosque, which is pretty big and has seen some sympathetic restoration work - tradesmen are actually working as I walk around - but a gang of local children traipse after me and it's the first time I hear 'one pen' muttered, which is something that clueless foreign tourists are no doubt to blame for. What a gormless idea that is.

All in all, I visit six or seven different places that appear to date back to the 1600s, including a massive area with round stone-built structures: I've no idea what I'm looking at.

I stroll around and take photos, then a dusty trail leads me to a brick wall that's about 3-metres wide and a couple of hundred metres long that's also having some rebuilding work done.

Shortly after I come across a tall tower with nicely carved stone detailing around its doorway, then I find another mosque and a mausoleum to an offspring of one of the rulers. Then another red-brick gateway - sturdy and robust to say the least.

It's getting on for 3:00 by the time I'm riding south-ish and a friendly guy says it's 40 km to the nearest 'lodge' - the word they seem to use for basic hotels around here - it'll be a push to get there before darkness comes.

Dhulian is on my map, that's the goal.

I get lost again, riding down dusty paths which get smaller and a few tiny places appear with people are wondrous. I venture down a dead-end and return and in the end my wheels are balancing on a footpath running between fields and going through tiny baris where I seem to be in people's yards.

For about six kilometres it lasts, then I reach a small tarmac lane and a few shops where I treat myself to some sweets and a bottle of Sprite.

Luckily an English speaker explains where to go - north and then across the Ganges and veer south to Dhulian, following the main road.

I stop after seeing more of those trays of silk cacoons and there's a workshop by the side of the road. They have a row of metal vats the size of washing-up bowls that are being heated by wood and coal and the silk thread is there - not sure what the process is.

A man shows me the packing room where a guy is sat on the floor with a hand-press and bundles of the golden yard that he's squeezing into printed paper sleeves. There's no silk cloth for sale, though.

It's now big-ring time and my speed is around 30 km/hr as the sun, which never really appeared all day, goes for good. The draft of passing trucks propels me somewhat and by five I'm in Dhulian, sweaty and coated in grime.

A 100-rupee room in a place that'll see my tent-net erected on its rank bed is home for the night and although it's super-basic, the staff couldn't be more helpful. It's kind of embarrassing to be treated like this.

After yet another cold bucket-shower, my laptop gets plugged in but the screen remains jet black. There's not even the Windows jingle. It's kaput and it's an early night.

Today's ride: 75 km (47 miles)
Total: 1,571 km (976 miles)

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