Subtly at first, and then with more force, I felt the bike starting to labour and inexorably lose forward momentum. I shifted down a cog and continued, but the drag worsened. Nightmare scenarios of mechanical failure ran through my mind, but glancing over at Olli I could see that he too was in difficulty. Then I looked down, and knew with certainty that we were sinking. The surface here was not as solid as the previous day, and we were making heavy weather through what was rapidly becoming soft salt-topped mud. Oh dear, I thought, or words to that effect...

20 January 2001

I left Jaisalmer on Christmas eve with Olli, a German biker on a magically maintenance-free Transalp, with the intention to head out into the desert for a Christmas meal cooked by campfire. So we loaded up with the ingredients to make a desert Christmas. One bottle rum, the makings of onion pakoras (a delicacy we learned from the camel-men in Jaisalmer) and baked spuds, a fresh chicken, herbs & spices, and some "Hide and Seek" biscuits, which are without doubt the finest form of confectionery in the known universe. A veritable poem in choc-chip loveliness, oh yes indeedy.

If you go west from Jaisalmer, an interesting thing happens. First, the tourists thin out, and disappear. Then, people by the side of the road starting leaping up and down and waving excitably. Fair enough. We waved back.

Comments like "Go back, go back!" were less open to misinterpretation, but we carried on regardless and found that the best Christmases are to be had in militarily sensitive border areas.

But at the time we didn't know this, and pressed onward to find a fine spot off the road in amongst the thorn trees and the dunes. The pakoras sizzled, the chicken barbecued, the rum flowed, the stars shone, and the biscuits...errr....just got eaten. It appeared that the Pakistani military did not object too much to our presence, for we were not bothered during the night except by a small herd of cattle, which ambled past a few hundred yards distant. They clearly found nothing to excite their interest, sighed resignedly, talked the situation over, and wandered off into the night.

The following day dawned bright and fresh, and we discovered that sleeping under the sky seems to efficiently negate the effects of a hangover.

This was just as well, as the roads leading south to rejoin the main highway were periodically subject to huge drifts of sand from the desert, which piled up often a foot or two deep, for several hundred yards. I hate sand. This sort of stuff is no problem in a 4-wheel drive, but on a heavily laden 2-wheeler can cause problems. Unless you hit these hazards just right, the vehicle starts to weave alarmingly from side to side as your speed drops, and you end up either dropping the whole bloody lot into the (mercifully soft) sand, or hopelessly mired in the stuff, up to your hubs.

Trying to extricate a bike from this sort of predicament is hot sweaty work and you can quite easily burn your clutch to a frazzle if you try to ride the bike out without help. The main rule seems to be to keep going forward at all costs. So we did, and learned a bit about sand riding in the process - though I still hate the stuff and will do anything to avoid it. I made a solemn promise to my poor abused motorcycle not to go off road again on this trip. This was a somewhat optimistic promise, as events were to prove very shortly...

The Rann of Katch

After a night in a guesthouse, we set off to travel over the Rann of Katch, which barred our path to the south. The Rann is a huge flat salty plain, which is connected to the ocean in the West, but doesn't actually contain any water - except during monsoon, when it is largely occupied (according to the guide) by mud and wading birds. There are two subdivisions of the Rann, and we intended to cross the smaller of the two, an area about 50 kilometres diameter. Although there was a perfectly serviceable main asphalt road, Olli wanted to cross by a route which was marked on our map as a jeep trail.

Now, in view of my recent experiences in Northern Pakistan, I tend to receive premonitions of imminent doom when someone mentions jeep trails, but I threw caution to the winds, or indeed down the lavatory, and agreed.

This is symptomatic of the division of labour in our expedition group. Olli is in charge of navigation, insane ideas, public relations and opening beer bottles. I take care of tea-making, dishwashing, falling off, worrying about the bikes, and saying "bloody hell" a lot.

So we headed towards the Rann, with the by now familiar crowds of bystanders gesticulating frantically, and hopping up and down: "Go back, go back....!"

I was not in the least surprised when the jeep trail degenerated into deep rutted sand (sand! goody!) and then disappeared entirely. But then we emerged from the scrubby bushes and entered the salt lake itself.

Seeing these things on television does not prepare you for the reality of biking across the middle of a blinding white emptiness, with the sun beating down on the hard dusty salt-encrusted surface and a trail of dust billowing from your back wheel. We were travelling now by compass bearing, due to the lack of any visible landmarks whatsoever
- just a flat blue-white horizon, and in the distance I could see Olli, a tiny shiny bike pelting along at the base of a huge plume of dust. After a time, the horizon sprouted a small raised island with a few thorn trees, which was marked on our map as the approximate centre of the lake. An excellent place to stop and camp.

The sun went down in splendour over the flat empty plains and we felt privileged to be the only two people there to see it.

Sunset on our island in the middle of the salt lake

The following morning we continued South towards the villages on the distant side of the Rann. Subtly at first, and then with more force, I felt the bike starting to labour and inexorably lose forward momentum. I shifted down a cog and continued, but the drag worsened. Nightmare scenarios of mechanical failure ran through my mind, but glancing over at Olli I could see that he too was in difficulty. Then I looked down, and knew with certainty that we were sinking. The surface here was not as solid as the previous day, and we were making heavy weather through what was rapidly becoming soft salt-topped mud. Oh dear, I thought, or words to that effect.

Remembering my sand schooling of the previous day, I tried to keep going in a forward direction for as long as possible, in the hope of finding firmer ground. Instead, the surface seemed to worsen. The engine began to rev higher, though I was patently slowing down, and in confusion I glanced behind to see that I was creating a picturesque ten-foot fountain of mud as my wheel spun in the gluey surface.

Overheating and sinking in the salt lake

Still, we were moving forward, albeit at a reduced rate. I glanced at Olli, who was similarly using the rear wheel of his Transalp as a sort of 600cc muckspreader. Farmer Olli churned over towards me with a huge grin on his face, apparently oblivious to the huge strains we were placing on the motors of our machines. This unshakeable confidence in the capabilities of his bike is one of Olli's trademarks, and one which I cannot emulate, so I do the worrying for both of us. We continued, to the smell of burning engine oil. Smoke started to come out of Olli's engine-oil dipstick hole, so we stopped for a bit to let things cool down, and eat biscuits. (This tends to be our initial response to any crisis). On closer inspection the rear wheels of both bikes were now completely without tyre-profile, just smooth mud. It was like trying to ride round on an 18-inch doughnut. Each bike had also collected about 10kg of glutinous mud.

Olli was cheerful and confident. I said "Bloody hell". We continued.

As it happened, we were past the worst, and were convinced that the game was over when we reached a group of salt "miners" who were working within sight of "land" on the far side of the Rann. The process of extracting salt from a salt lake in the dry season involves digging a deep hole, from which water is pumped out into a shallow square lagoon, 50 metres on a side, about a foot deep, bounded by low earth walls. The salty water then evaporates slowly, leaving the salt, which is harvested. I know all these fascinating details because I had the opportunity to inspect the arrangements very closely, mainly because the miners directed us straight through the middle of the lagoon complex. I think the best way to tell whether the salt is ready to be harvested or not, is to send some dipstick biker straight through the middle. If they don't come out the other side, you know to leave it a few more days.....

Trying to escape from the salt lagoons
- Connor with bike

So it was two very muddy and knackered bikers who finally made it, gasping, to the first chai stall on the other side. Olli had got irretrievably stuck at one point, and I had to push him out - this was when I learned that the best way to get covered from head to toe in mud is to push a wheel-spinning Transalp through an Indian salt lagoon for 50 yards or so. You are invited to test the hypothesis for yourself. Bring your own Transalp....

I travelled the remaining distance to the night's guesthouse with the salty crud rapidly drying on the front of my leather jacket and trousers. By the time I arrived, I appeared to have some sort of advanced industrial disease - yeah, salt miners crotch, a nasty case....

So at length 2 dusty and weary bikers arrived in Diu, for a well earned new-year break in the tropical paradise on the Arabian sea
- my definition of paradise being a warm sunny place where beer is 30 rupees a bottle, half the price in the rest of India.

And bless me father, for I have sinned mightily, in that I did verily go to the beach on my bike on numerous occasions, and yea didst drive most recklessly through sand and salt and all manner of crud, and thereby didst have a right good time but didst shorten the life of my holy chain and sacred sprockets by 1000 kays or so. I am a sinner and will surely go to hell, amen.

After this debauchery, I headed East, still in the company of Ollie and having additional members of the party in the form of Mike, an Aussie on a rented Enfield, and Carmen, riding pillion with Ollie and expanding his luggage to the point where space and time in the region of his back box were starting to show signs of strain.

The next few days passed at a leisurely pace, and I learned a lot about Enfield mechanics. I am currently possessed by an illogical and masochistic desire to own one of these things, enraptured as I am by the agricultural nature of the engineering, and the ability to access all necessary spare parts for a full engine rebuild at the local back-of-beyond corner store.

But I guess such advantages evaporate if you take one of these bikes out of India........so stick with your trusty Tenere, you disloyal sod. To quote desiderata:

"With all its knackered suspension, dodgy 5th gear and elderly camchain, it is still a beautiful motorcycle. Be careful. Strive to drink more chai...."

But all things come to an end, not least of which my visa for India.

With the expiry date fast approaching, I had to hotfoot it alone from the pilgrim town of Omkareshwar North East towards Nepal. I remember very little of this hectic flight, except that the take-home message is that being in a hurry on Indian roads can be hazardous to your health. I guess most of you knew that already, but some of life's little lessons we have to learn for ourselves....

So here I am in Kathmandu - having arrived after dark (breaking my golden rule of not travelling at night) and with my headlamps failing (breaking my basic common sense rule of not travelling when its DARK and you cant bloody well SEE ANYTHING YOU IDIOT), and I plan to rest up, fix my electrics, straighten both my buckled wheels (again), eat some biscuits, and generally enjoy myself in like fashion for a week or so.

The good times are here again

More soon - Connor.

The journey was largely without incident, except for a brief involuntary tour of Delhi international airport, during which I was dangerously close to receiving clearance to take off for Switzerland.

In Jaipur I met up with a party of four German bikers, last seen in Islamabad, on the wrong side of Ramadan; Thomas (comedian), Carmen (strong-arm negotiation), Martin (mechanic and guide) and Frank (philosopher).

Frank and Carmen in Islamabad

I made up a fifth member of the group (clueless Paddy git), as they left Jaipur heading for Bikaner, as they didn't appear to have one of these. I enjoyed their concept of travel, which was to move slowly by small roads through areas unfamiliar with the heavy tread of tourists. Their method of procuring a night's lodging was a revelation to me - they pull up outside the local schoolhouse, grab the first person they see and say "Can we sleep in there?". Someone is then usually dispatched to pedal off and find the schoolteacher, who opens the place up without batting an eyelid. Presumably sleeping in schoolhouses is common practice round these parts, or maybe the actions of foreigners are so bizarre and incomprehensible that people just play along to see what's going to happen next.

What happened next was dinner, cooked on the roof of the school, and this mundane procedure seemed to fulfil the wildest fantasies of the entire village, because we had them up there, watching us intently. All of them. The crowd was such that I began to wonder about the strength of the concrete below and imagine news headlines: 'Entire village perishes after weird cult rooftop vegetable soup collapse tragedy.'

At (great) length, most of the onlookers departed and left us with the village boss men and a teacher who spoke relatively good English; we talked about drought in Rajasthan and ate some green sweet stuff in a bag which (we were assured) was a local speciality.

The next evening was spent camping out beside a well in the desert, watching the sun set behind the dark silhouettes of the thorn trees. The occasional local wandered past, and stopped for a look, but in the desert privacy seems to be respected - people look once and then move on. They don't say much.

Bikaner was by contrast big and riotous, and to walk around this town at night is an experience. The smoky streets are lit by bright pools of electric light, gas lanterns and the yellow flames of kerosene cookers boiling enormous steel woks of rice pudding or samosa-filled bubbling oil. You jostle with camels and rickshaws and donkeys and cows and mopeds, all jingling and hooting and calling out to each other. The smell is best described as pungent.

Shops in the bazaar selling bright cloth, and others selling vegetables and spices, are cheek by jowl with hi-tech electrical emporiums with crazily flashing LED's, and motorcycle repair shops lit from within by the lightning of arc welders. It is a fantastic hybrid of the Arabian Nights and Mad Max (with a bit of Floyd on Food).

It was in Bikaner that I noticed a local obsession with pants.

Gents underwear to be precise. Many many billboards and hoardings with huge painted pictures of muscular hunks, sporting the most improbable underwear you have ever seen.

Built to withstand nuclear blasts, I believe, and possibly representing the increasing nuclear tension in this area so close to the Pakistani border. I mean, the sheer volume of material in these swathes of cloth was impressive, and the designs would have been considered outmoded and frumpy by military outfitters in the 1920's, let alone Calvin Klein.

Thinking about it, this may account for the cavalier manner of Indian driving. There may be a belief that any vehicular collision will be averted by the considerable structural strength inherent in their knickers. There should be research.....

Leaving Carmen and the others behind in Bikaner, I continued on to meet up with Ollie in the desert city of Jaisalmer, an enormous multi turreted fortress city on a gravely plateau in the midst of a whole lot of nothing at all. The local speciality is the Camel Safari, which entails several days in the desert, balanced precariously on one of the most uncomfortable means of transport known to man.

In spite of my misgivings, I couldn't resist signing up for one of these trips, if only to experience first-hand the camel's supposedly colossal contempt for the human race. So Ollie and I exchanged our metal camels for the flesh and blood variety for a few days, and lurched happily off into the desert......

The border crossing the following day was about what I'd expected only in reverse -the officials on the Pakistani side were moneygrabbing and officious, whilst the Indian officers did not even attempt to ask for bribery or baksheesh, and even refused my offer of a biscuit. Although, to be fair, it was a Pakistani biscuit, and may well have been laced with cyanide, you can't be too careful. However, the processing of our customs documents on the Indian side was the funniest form of spectator sport.

The lady at the desk was clearly overwhelmed as she attempted to deal with the paperwork from 6 vehicles simultaneously, rather than one at a time. The result was that all the painstakingly filled out and checked and signed and countersigned and copied and signed again paperwork isn't worth a stale chapati, because the lady kept getting the passports and forms mixed up, so that different details were entered according to which passport she happened to have in her hand at that particular moment. So I think I have been listed as a Land-Rover-owning 40-year-old Dutch female, married with 3 children and a dog.

The border post is only a short ride from the city of Amritsar - and to my delight the traffic was no more insane than it had been in Pakistan, contrary to the horror stories we'd been fed by bikers who had previously experienced Indian highway manners.

Once safely ensconced on the lawn of Mrs Bandari's guesthouse (I have never ensconced a tent before, it's not nearly as difficult as it sounds), we took a bicycle rickshaw into town to visit the famous and much photographed Golden Temple. This is the holy shrine of the Sikh religion, where so much blood was spilt in 1984, as the Indian army stormed the temple to eject a the occupying force of hardline Sikhs who were campaigning for an independent Sikh state. (I think I got all that correct, if you are offended by any historical or conceptual inaccuracy, please write and I will issue a full apology to any and all ethnic or religious groups who are the least bit annoyed and feeling the need to go out and shoot people. DO NOT, REPEAT NOT, GO OUT AND SHOOT PEOPLE - THANK YOU.).

On the way through the busy streets of Amritsar, the differences between India and Pakistan were obvious and striking. Women on motorbikes, for heaven's sake! Brightly garbed and smiling, these butterflies on Vespas were scooting in and out of their turbaned male counterparts (and in general carving the guys up something shocking). I was taken by surprise by the strangeness of this - after the repressive Islamic female dress code, and the strict rules against women doing....well, anything.....This was very pleasing on the eye.

When one lady caught my eye I even found myself looking away shyly (A WOMAN! No eye contact, don't talk, don't look, all functional interactions are forbidden). This Islam-enforced reflex is one which I will be very glad to ditch.

And so to the famous Golden Temple itself. I am not going to go into raptures about the gorgeous architecture, or the way the evening sunlight gleams dazzlingly off the gold superstructure of the temple and dances on the ripples of the sacred lake which surrounds the building. What I want to talk about is the people and the atmosphere which pervades the place.

The pilgrims who visit the temple are very warm and open, and the atmosphere inside is similar to that of families out for a Sunday stroll, smilingly approaching confused foreigners to offer information and help. One old man told us, in broken English: 'Sikh, Muslim, Christian, Hindu - all religions are welcome here.'

I don't know enough about the religion yet to tell whether this is their doctrine or just wishful thinking - I will make efforts to find out....

The temple music is produced continuously by a band of musicians and a singer located inside the sanctum, and is a vast improvement on the ululating karaoke of the Islamic call to prayer, having things like structure, rhythm and harmony, all concepts which I'd almost forgotten. The warmth inside the sanctum is relaxing and welcoming, in contrast with the western attitude that holy places should be dark and echoing, and faintly damp. In fact it's a little like being invited into someone's front room - come on in, pull up a bit of floor and listen for as long as you like. Then go outside and sit by the waters of the lake watching the sparkly sunlight and occasionally being asked by people to take their photograph.

Yes, they actually walk up, plonk their colorfully dressed and very photogenic kids in front of you, and virtually insist on a picture. The first time I thought that they would ask me to send the picture by post, (and perhaps, a small cynical voice in my mind added, include a visa), but no, it was apparently enough just to be photographed. In an interesting reversal of the normal course of events, we were asked several times to pose with the locals as they took pictures of the quaintly dressed foreigners. I was happy to oblige.

Ken Duval with kids in India

The last night of our stay in Amritsar was spent in the pilgrims' quarters adjoining the temple - travellers are permitted to stay up to three nights absolutely free and gratis, and you can even elect to eat in the huge temple refectory. The temple guards were touchingly concerned about the safety of our motorcycles, and mounted an all-night watch over them to ensure that bits did not go missing overnight.

The following day, we bid goodbye to Ollie, who planned to head southwest to Rajasthan, and Angela who was Kathmandu-bound.

Team Duval and I had other fish to fry, which entailed an assault on Delhi, a daunting prospect from the way many people had described it. But I couldn't help but feel a little rush of excited satisfaction as we stopped to ask directions on the road. I mean, how many times in your life do you get to say: 'Scuse me, mate. Which way to Delhi?'

Delhi! Huge, smoggy and polluted, crazily suicidal traffic, danger on every street corner, and....and...errr, well, not that bad actually. In fact, we passed through what I considered to be fairly orderly traffic with the minimum of fuss, and found cheap digs at the Ghadi Guest House near Connaught Place.

This hostel is mainly notable for it's entrance gate, which looks like the portal to the innermost level of Hades. 'If my mother only knew....', I commented, so Carol helpfully snapped a picture for me to send home.

Ghadi Guest House, Delhi

Our mission in Delhi was to research flight options to Bangkok, and I acquired a second mission when my battery (as is traditional) suddenly expired without warning.

I envisaged the usual two week delay, the futile interviewing of many uncomprehending mechanics whilst busting a gut trying to pantomime 'motorcycle battery', the inevitable overseas calls and extortionate couriering and customs fees to get a battery sent out from UK.....

Then Ken and I found one in a shop on the corner. Just like that. In less than an hour. Not just a 'well, we could bodge a bit off there and solder something on here and hit it with a big hammer and it should last for a week or two given constant attention...'

Nope, this was exactly and precisely the right size and shape, 14 Amp/hour, 12 volt piece of Exide lead-acid loveliness WITH guarantee, in it went with a self satisfied snick and started the bike first time. I was gobsmacked. This ran counter to the whole custom and tradition of overlanding, and I felt we had violated some important natural law.

Still. Never mind.

Having decided on a flight to Bangkok in March, we decided to travel separately until the flight date and meet up again to travel again together in SE Asia. Ken and Carol wanted to head to Kathmandu for Christmas with a good group of assorted hairy overlanders, whereas I had had entirely enough of freezing my nuts off (see Shandur pass, Lowari pass, Islamabad Campground Shower block) and wanted to travel in the Thar desert for a few weeks. I sadly bid them goodbye, for a while at least, and set off to the South West.