Kelsi

January 20, 2011

along the beach, some tracks, backlanes and the Number 4

There's no bread for making toast, so breakfast is just a cup of tea. For a resort charging 1,200 a night, Sagar Sawali seems mismanaged.

I'll simply get going and my tyres roll sluggishly cross the wet beach, which is softer than the long one in Goa that I cycled along and there's a small creek to get across first and once through that the sand becomes a narrow strip with the Arabian lapping close to the fist-size rocks that form a breaker wall.

There's around three to ten feet to ride along and it's a little taxing and my speed is only 10 km/hr. There's no rush.

After a kilometre of cycling there's a rocky outcrop in the near distance and there's no way my bike can get around that, so I head inland across a field of short grass to find a narrow road which is not going to be on any map. The resort manager never mentioned this route.

The sea views are a treat as the track rises, but then the tarmac simply stops just as if someone has drawn a line in the sand and in its place is a rough path which within a kilometre becomes a field of cropped rice or whatever.

I keep going and walk up a couple of bumpy slopes and finally freewheel down a hill, which has a another rough trail at its foot.

This trail leads onto a tarmac lane that winds back to the shore and blow me if it doesn't arrive at a resort twinned with the one I stayed in last night.

However, this one looks much newer and as is only around four years old as opposed to 23 the young guy behind the desk says when he takes my order for breakfast - a fried egg sandwich - which I eat outside on a shaded patio. He says the 17 rooms will be full at the weekend, but right now there's no one staying. Curiosity gets the better of me and he quotes me 1,600 for a non-AC room.

The narrow lane continues along the shore and is fab. There's zilch else on it as my wheels take me north and it's just me and the odd cow now and again.

The couple of small resort places that I pass seem to be devoid of customers.

The lane rises up and heads inland, which is not what I really want, so my wheels veer left down a rough track that ends up on a lane lined with homes and I keep going north along it as it runs parallel to the beach, but only until getting back on the sand seems like a good idea.

I cut through someone's garden and find the top quite soft like before, but the beach is now much wider. It's deserted and perhaps a kilometer later I opt to return to the road and see a twin row of short pines and guess they mark a track and they do, so I go along it and find another isolated resort with huts and a lady tells me to bear left and I do.

The trail leads to a paved lane and then this gets to the main road, which is a minor one really and my guess is it's route Number 4. There's a one-street place and young villagers can speak English.

The views of the Arabian are stunning and I ride along aware that there's no other traffic and feel good about that. In the distance coming my way is a man pushing something and I take his photo before reaching him to find he's selling ice cream to God knows who. Me - I buy three chocolate ones.

Harnai is a small village with one lane - the 4 - and I pause for a few photos of people, one of whom is an elderly women who's sat outside one of the simple houses that are home to fisher-folk no doubt. She doesn't look at the camera and after I zoom in on her image, her eyes are glazed and it dawns on me she's blind.

There's a strong smell of fish in the air.

It's not far to the crossing and I find a small canoe-type boat to get me across Harnai's wide estuary. The fare is cheap - 25 rupees - but could be even less if I haggled. A man uses a long pole to punt his small group of passengers along.

We disembark on the north's sandy bank and my sandals get wet again, but this's far better than wearing shoes and socks as mine dry in next to no time in this sunny heat.

Highway 4 winds north and it's narrow - hardly a highway - and the fact that there're no major bridges and real ferries means there's little traffic along it. What there is is mostly people - some of them are on bikes and motorcycles. However, there are not many. Fab!

The sea is on my left, going for miles to the flat, horizon.

Kelsi is a place that Frank from Holland had said is a small village and when I get there it seems a sleepy one and when I ask about a place to stay people say there's a lodge, which contradicts what the hotel manager said this morning.

While I'm searching for it down a side street a school boy asks me if I want a room and tells me that his parents have one, so I follow him as it seems okay to tag along to his house. When asked he says his name, but because it has four syllables I ask him what his friends call him and he says Rishi so that's what his name is as far as I'm concerned. He's 12 and has good English skills.

Rishi's mother shows me the place they rent and it's dingy with two main rooms, but she doesn't know how much a bed is a night. I say I'd prefer having one of the two beds that look like those in pre-war things that are side by side in the entrance area that doesn't have glass in the windows - only barred openings like a Victorian prison. The thin padded mats they roll onto the floor look very dodgy. No thanks.

Rishi and I pedal down to the nearby beach and I wonder about riding on it in the morning, but is feels rather soft. It's huge.

There's no one around as we watch the sun go down, talking about bikes. He has a 21-speed model that's being fixed in Daploi and wants to ride mine, but it's too big.

Rishi's father arrives home at gone six and quotes me 500 rupees, which I tell him is a lot considering there's not even breakfast included and it's a rip-off really, but it's almost dark now so what choice do I have. My expectation was 300, tops

Dinner is at their home, which is over 100 years old, and I sit in the entrance part for a while with Grandfather, who is in a wonderful old chair made of wood. He says it's 50 years old, but the style looks older.

There's another man sat on a swing made from a seat the size of a door and this's suspended from a rafter by thick coir string.

In the main room, which is painted a super electic blue, there are two niches in the wall that Grandfather says are now used like cupboards but which were originally for some religious use. Each is around a foot high and arched and set within a stepped rectangular framework formed in the plasterwork and there's red decoration around the outlines and the whole design is just so different from what you would find in England... maybe in rural Italy or mountain villages of southern Spain.

The bright tube light makes photography a no-no, but I make a mental note to take a snap of the wall in the morning. And the chair.

Mother serves me dinner, which doesn't look very appetizing and is quite small in the thali-style with dinky bowls... they are all veggies here so there's no meat or fish. A poppadom is broken into pieces and there're a few chappattis. One bowl has dal and the other is a gooey-looking curry that's coloured green or brown. It's hard to tell in the dim light.

It all tastes fantastic and Mother brings top-ups and more chapatis as soon as I devour. It's the tastiest meal of the whole trip and I tell Rishi he should learn from her, but he's preoccupied with his laptop on which he's playing a cricket game: England vs the USA - strange choice of opposition it seems to me.

I ask Mother how much and she replies 'nothing' as I have paid 500 rupees and my guess is she feels that 500 is a lot for sleeping in that basic entrance area. She's right of course, but the meal alone was worth that.

Today's ride: 30 km (19 miles)
Total: 3,470 km (2,155 miles)

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