Riding the ranges

Dandeli, Karnataka - 1 Apr '02

Text: Murali K Menon
Photos: Murali K Menon

Chapter XV, page 337 in my book of dreams is about a shiny Honda VFR 750. A reliable bike to travel the world on, like those various investment bankers, couples, madcaps, and messengers of peace who dump routine for an extended tango with the road. Last month I headed out to Goa, of the tanned skin and beer breath, to pick up Kinetic’s GF 125. Not quite a VFR, but pretty much equipped to facilitate my little jaunts around the countryside.

My destination was vague and after months of planned journeys, I wanted this one to be an aimless cruise. Travel for the sake of travel. Mangalore via Belur-Halebid through Karnataka’s backroads, North Kerala maybe, with an extended stay at Karwar. Dandeli never actually
figured in my plans till the day I left Goa. What, however, made me head for the forest sanctuary was a mention made by a friend who’d been been there a couple of years ago, of the roads that led to the place.

I hung around in Goa for longer than I intended to, watching sunsets and sunrises, sipping beer, and procastinating as if there were a hundred tomorrows.

I finally left when two-timing Sol had just returned from his rendezvous with the other end of the world, passing old codgers in their Sunday best, roly-poly matrons in their polyster frocks, tall, sun-splashed churches and headed towards the NH 17 that leads into Karnataka.

Inside my helmet, I was as solitary as I could get. A hundred nebulous thoughts streaked around like molecules dashing against the fibreglass dome – my burgeoning credit card bills, my impulsive beanbag purchase, my travel, my life – and then splintered into a hundred other different shards of thought.

Goa-Karwar makes for a fantastic early morning ride, with the highway winding through little hillocks, mud-brick houses, and the sight of Christianity’s spires slowly making way for Hinduism’s bulbous pillars.

Karwar came after an hour of leisurely riding, and with it, a glimpse of the sea rocking little unoccupied boats to sleep. The GF meanwhile hummed the song of the single, its unbroken-in engine occasionally missing a beat and then getting the rhythm back.

Breakfast was at an Udupi restaurant whose menu also listed out dessert specials such as Honeymooner’s Delight and Lovebirds. A hoarding outside told me that if I’d missed the Silver Sands resort, I ought to take a quick U-turn, while another canvas advertisement wanted me to take advantage of some export surplus sale – now!

None of these imploring messages worked on me as I headed out towards the coast at this gateway town, sandwiched between the blue sea and the Western Ghats. The backwaters rushed into the Arabian ocean from various inlets and I spotted huge ships docked at the naval port. As the sun clambered up the sky, I took a U-turn, not to the Silver Sands resort of course, and headed back on the highway towards Dandeli.

A German biker on a Bullet I met on the way told me that the journey was going to be long and winding. I gazed into the distance and the road snaked lazily through green hill slopes and wooded forests.

A little while later, I was cruising on a road that blends in well with my chilled-out style of riding. I counted over 41 corners while traversing the lonely distance, sparsely dotted with Shaivaite temples, graveyards, a village called Asnoti and an odd shop or two. The air was fresh, the GF glinted in the mid-day sun, its throaty exhaust note echoing all around. The world there seemed to be made for an eager biker and his machine. My fingers buzzed as I rode into the sanctuary lodge three hours later, with the Kali river meandering nearby.

Lunch and a short nap in a comfy room later, I found myself in a Mahindra driving into the forest along with two Englishmen and an NRI couple from the US. The dense semi-deciduous surroundings had shafts of sunlight streaming through them, and as we went deeper into the jungle, my uneasiness increased. An atavistic fear of always being watched by hidden eyes, compounded by an imagination plugged on to special effects. I mistook a mongrel for a jackal and then hopelessly failed to spot a snake camouflaged among dead leaves.

We spotted some sambhar deer and I braced myself for the inevitable ‘idli-sambar’ joke. It came from the NRI couple who giggled at each other. The vehicle moved noisily over the forest detritus, past watering holes, and a freshly killed baby deer, on the way to an eagle’s dining table. The peace in the forest appeared to be constantly stalked by a silent, savage menace, with padded paws and burning eyes. “There are around 11 tigers out here,” said the forest ranger, “and most of them are difficult to spot. But we should hopefully be able to sight a few panthers.”

The more-attuned-to-the-jungle ranger alerted me to a rustle here and a streak there; one was a hornbill and the other a giant Malabar squirrel. I just managed to catch fleet-footed glimpses as the animals scurried off deeper into the undergrowth.We moved along, squinting through the foliage for signs of life, all at sea in a silent, menacing environment. Whoever designed farm implements aeons ago did a very wise thing. Man, for all his evolved thought, is hopelessly out of sync with life in the jungle.

The sun was going down now and the ranger stopped at a long line of steps. “Those among you fit enough to take on 375 steps both ways can come with me. We’ll pray at the little Shiva temple down there and then visit the prehistoric caves.” Ignoring my nicotine-coated lungs, I huffed and puffed along with the rest of the group as the long line of steps led us on through a cliff face and onto a newly built platform dotted with religious paraphernalia.

Our man handed us a lit candle each, and we followed him into a damp network of limestone caves inhabited by prehistoric man. We crawled along at some places on a route designed more for our agile ancestors than contemporary men like me attired in hiking boots, caps and rucksacks. The ranger stopped by at a naturally formed lingam, paid his obeisance and then carried on through the labyrinth of tunnels, finally exiting out of a short cut.

Out in the open, all sweaty and stooped, one of the Brits wanted to know what sort of animals one could find in the caves. “The caves are only visited once a day by a priest, apart from the annual visit by thousands of pilgrims on Shivratri. But we figure there are king cobras out here, I think it’s very possible.” Sleep that night after slogging it out in the jungle came easily. I woke up in the morning to the mushy twitter of birds and got ready for the ride back to Goa. A group of Enfields were being warmed up outside; silver Bullets ridden all the way from Rajasthan. A little while later, I was following those thumping exhaust notes which filled the mountain air.