It is that time of the year again. The expected call came from my dear friend Ashish Bhatia, once again inviting me to be his co-driver during the Desert Storm 2012 rally. Allegedly one of the most gruelling and challenging rallies in India (some say in Asia), it is tough for the participants. But from what I have experienced over the past three years, it can be as tough for the Marshalls. And I was going to punish myself again as a Marshall this year too.
Life is tough for the Marshalls. Time loses all meaning. Meals are a thing you grab when you can. Sleep is something you catch in the gap between two cars speeding obscenely towards your Hop. You are left in the middle of the desert or the salt flat or the Rann in the middle of the night, the only contact with the outside world being the intermittent crackle of radio sets, supposedly establishing contact, but sometimes I feel, it is for the radio holders just to reassure themselves that there is a world at the other end of the radio set. The Storm is about food deprivation, sleep deprivation, water deprivation. Thirst, hunger, fear and the numbing cold are a constant companion.
I understand that this year our responsibilities are going to be largely placements of the other rookie Marshals along the rally route. Which means we will first have to reach each stage, recce the entire route, then gather all the Marshals in a convoy and keep placing them, placing ourselves at our locations, establish radio contact with the Hops behind and ahead of us, and then wait for the Stage to go live. Which could be hours away. And after the Stage is over, sweep the Marshals along the course and head for the next Stage to repeat the exercise all over again. And the next Stage could be 300 km away. And this is on a good day (or night). Often times participants stray off course and get lost. If they are lost in our watch we have to go look for them and shepherd them back to the paddock. Other avoidable instances are accidents, God forbid.
Sometimes I get the feeling that the organisers do this on purpose. Make the Marshals drive through the night to reach their next location, keep them occupied for most of the night, start the Stage in the wee hours, allow it to go on for much of the night. And as night falls, new duties are handed out and the Marshals drive through the night to reach their next port of call. This way hotel rooms do not need to be booked for most of the Marshals and if per chance some of them do happen to drop by the staging area, remnants of a buffet dinner might be available.
Nah, I am kidding. It is a tough ask to organise a rally as big as the storm. And JD and Raj and team do a fantafabulous job each year. Hats off to them. The work starts months before the actual rally and becomes even more intense on the rally days. It is no mean task to administer this monster of an event. There are the participants who are the real heroes of the show and have to be catered to. As have to their support teams. The rookie and trigger happy Marshals (and I have seen a few of them) are no easy bunch to manage. Food, refreshments, hotel bookings, permits, ambulances, cops, local administration, villagers, run-over dogs (and sometimes cattle), the spills, and the ever present fear that someone will make a mistake and there will be a nasty pile-up. Seven days of pure hell. I am surprised they still look so cool and calm and composed. But behind that serene exterior I am sure there is a racing heart and the fingers dug into the pockets ostensibly due to the cold, are crossed every which way.
So here I am, ready to get go off and get punished, of my own free will. Might come back a few kilos lighter, a lot darker, with a stated promise never to be broken that this was the last year and all the elephants in the jungles of India will not be able to drag me to another Storm. But then, come this time next year, I will be writing a similar blog before heading off into Desert Storm 2013. Inshallah.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A drive through the asteroid belt
Having travelled a zillion miles over the years I am still convinced that travel is not about the destination as much as it is about the journey. And I have been through all kinds of terrain, all kinds of roads, all kinds of what like to call themselves roads, through high mountain passes and in the bosom of the desert. Every journey comes back with its own experiences, its own memories, each to be treasured for their own unique reason.
But, I had a recent experience that kind of let me down pretty badly. I had to go to Hyderabad for a meeting and like the maverick I am, I decided to rev up my trusted old 10 year old Santro and head off into the Deccan. People told me I was crazy, but then I always knew that. Anything to have the steering wheel in my hands and I could drive anywhere. So me and a couple of friends of mine loaded up on the vehicle early one morning and headed off South.
Sameer promised us breakfast at Agra, right in front of the entrance to Agra Fort. He said that the best meals of all varieties were available there. So, when we hit Agra, instead of looking for the bypass which would take us towards Gwalior, we went looking for the entrance to the Agra Fort. Finally found it. And blank. The whole place had been cleaned out as if swept with a broom. Not a thela in site. Not one distant smell of a paratha. No one selling pethas. Not even a chai wallah sneaking behind a tree trunk. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Shams and me looked back at Sameer questioningly. He had a very sheepish look on his face and finally confessed that this was the place to grab a bite when he had come here last. When was that, we asked. Well, five years ago, he said. No wonder. Five years is a long time for the civic authorities to clean up the mess, if that is at all possible in a country such as India. But sure thing, not a vendor in sight. We headed on and somehow found the highway once again and headed off into Chambal country.
The parathas we finally found in a roadside dhaba were delicious. Adding to the flavour was the spicy achaar and to cool off the tanginess in the mouth was fresh curd. Delicious. We spent some time talking to the locals about the ill repute of the Chambal region, its dacoits, and whether they were looters or modern day Robin Hoods. Everyone agreed that life in the region was much more peaceful now and almost all the dacoits had been either bumped off or were in jail. Life was a lot more peaceful and our worries of travelling through the Gwalior stretch at night were found to be largely unfounded. At least as far as these locals we spoke to at the dhaba was concerned. And it was still early morning and we had to cross the other ‘bad’ stretch of the road yet, well before nightfall. The naxal belt between Nagpur and Adilabad.
We raced on. Well, we did not actually. We wanted to though. As soon as we entered Madhya Pradesh something happened to the roads. They just disappeared. A stretch of spanking tarmac followed by miles of potholes. Maybe this was where the asteroids had hit Earth. Deep, deep craters. All the way. We headed gingerly on. My sister lives in Bhopal and we decided to spend a night with her. We told her to expect us around five. At seven we were still a few hours out. Here she was expecting her brother to come spend the night, the kids were waiting to show me some books that they had recently been gifted, the Old Monk was getting increasingly impatient, and here we were parked next to a thela having chai and dal vadas. By the time we parked in front of my sister’s house, it was past ten at night. The kids had managed to stay up just about enough to say hello, and off they went to bed. The Monk kept us company for a while, but the journey on the famed land of the Chambal had taken its toll and soon the three of us dozed off, oblivious to the symphony that our respective snores had on the neighbourhood. Least of all Shams whose snores can actually wake the dead ... on a good day. And today he was tired!
The plan was to leave Bhopal before daybreak, but by the time we heard the roosters and said good morning, the sun was way up in the sky and the promised dosas had burnt on the tawa. A South Indian breakfast was replaced with toast and omelettes and by the time we headed out further south, it was nearly ten in the morning. But we felt refreshed after a good nights sleep. We would be in Hyderabad by late evening. Given my enthusiasm I promised them an early night, maybe even while it was still light. Little did I know that one should never predict travel times when travelling down the heart of India – Madhya Pradesh. The roads entirely disappeared. Actually incorrect. The semblance of what was once a road was distinctly visible. In between the missing asphalt. Often we would stop not knowing which way to go. Crater on the left, crater on the right, an 18-wheeler honking behind us, a taxi blocking our way in front, caught in the same predicament. I lost count of the number of times the undercarriage went bump.
By the time we hit Nagpur it was way past sunset. And the ‘crazy’ stretch, the naxal belt was ahead of us. My information was that the Nagpur-Adilabad road was under construction and going would be slow. A better idea was to take the Nagpur-Asifabad road instead. Ok, we headed down that road. Sameer has a hatred for travelling at night and he insisted we parked for the night somewhere in Nagpur. I did not want to do that. I have always wanted to drive at night because of the traffic conditions I find at night – no rickshaws, no tractors, no schools, no children, no shops, nothing apart from trucks and the occasional bus. And I have no problem with them. My worry was safety. I did not want to become the main player in a ransom story. We asked around and everyone assured us that all was well and we could drive on without a care in the world. Sameer was less inclined and finally he won over. We drove another hundred kilometres or so towards Asifabad, and found a seedy hotel in a one-horse town and parked for the night. As you entered Sameer’s room you were immediately hit with the bold advertisement that proposed you call Babita. Mobile number and all! Babita was given a go-by but the chhotu of the hotel latched on to Sameer (who was sleeping in one room while Shams and me shared another) and insisted on giving him a massage. Sameer did not know what to do and immediately changed and insisted we head on. By this time, old man monk had had his say and we decided to leave early morning, which we did around five.
I called Hyderabad and told them to expect us around noon. Little did I realise that we were still in Madhya Pradesh. By the time noon turned around on the watch, we were still a couple of hours away from the destination. Awful, awful roads. I do not remember if it was Shams or Sameer who opined that National Highways were supposed to be maintained by the Centre and there was no use to blame the State Government for it. But that should hold true for all National Highways. Why was it that when we entered Madhya Pradesh the concept of a National Highway disappeared entirely? And guess what? The worst stretch of National Highway was labelled NH 69. No wonder!!!
We were way behind schedule in any case and there was no point in making any more apologies. We headed towards Hyderabad and finally landed at our destination, late beyond explanation. We were graciously put up in the company Guest House and despite my best intentions at staying awake, waiting for the time when we would head for our meeting, we were snoring like there was no tomorrow. The meeting, informal though it was, happened later in the evening, when we were treated to a delectable meal of dishes from literally all over the world – Greece, Turkey, Arabia and good old India. Tummies tucked, our formal meeting was pushed for the next day and we headed back to the Guest House for a much needed night of rest after the battering our bodies had taken over the past many hours.
We stayed on in Hyderabad for a few days completing the necessary duties, meeting people we had to meet and after having concluded a fairly successful trip it was time to head back again. Oooops. Back in Madhya Pradesh. The thought itself was not welcome, even to me who jumps at every opportunity for a long drive. Sameer had some work in Hyderabad and he decided to stay back for a couple of days. Me and Shams loaded up, cleaned the windscreen of the accumulated dust and headed off. No, we would not take the Asifabad road but the Adilabad road. It was daytime and the naxals would not trouble us. Moreover, my information was wrong, the road was constructed and we could make very good time. Which we did. In spite of the day time traffic everywhere which I personally loathe.
The owner of the dhaba we stopped for lunch advised us to head for Rajasthan from a detour short of Adilabad. A longer route, but a better one he promised. I wonder what happened to me but I decided to go down Madhya Pradesh, albeit through a different route than the one we had come by. We would not head to Bhopal, but would head to Nagpur via Hinganghat and then go down to Jabalpur, Jhansi, Sagar and Gwalior. Hmmm. Bad idea. The craters came back. Not as bad as on the other route, but bad enough. If the roads had been good, as they were till Adilabad, I was targeting reaching Delhi by noon. As luck and the roads would have it, by the time we hit Sagar, it was past midnight and the roads had taken their toll. We parked at a dhaba and slept for a few hours and then headed off again at the crack of dawn.
Got stuck in traffic through the day and by the time we hit Delhi it was past midnight. I should probably have listened to the dhaba owner and peeled off into Rajasthan. A longer route but I guess a shorter one in terms of time. And way more generous to the butt and the car.
But let me give Madhya Pradesh its due. This is not the first time I have travelled down MP. I have done it on a bike a few years ago. The conditions have gotten worse. But MP is doing its bit in population control. Accidents are par for the course. And whether they are a part of NREGA or not, a lot of employment is being generated. We found so many broken down vehicles, they certainly provided employment to a whole lot of mechanics all along the stretch. Spare part owners are making a killing in MP. What good is it to run a spare parts shop if no parts get broken? The roads in Madhya Pradesh ensure a steady stream of income for all spare part shops and mechanics of all hues. Add to that the threat of the dacoits of the Chambal and the Naxals of in the Nagpur-Adilabad stretch, we have hotels, motels, guest houses, dharamshalas, having their rooms booked at all times. Kudos.
Was it a good experience? According to me no experience is either good or bad. The experience just is. It is the memory of the experience that makes it good or bad. As for this ride, it gave me another glimpse of travelling down our wonderful country. And it took me down two different routes. And the next time I head to Hyderabad, I will take the route through Rajasthan. Let’s see how that turns out.
Travel hard. Travel long. And enjoy the experience. Remember the good memories, do not dwell on the bad. After all, it takes all kinds to make this world and when you take the good with the bad it makes for a memorable experience. Have fun.
But, I had a recent experience that kind of let me down pretty badly. I had to go to Hyderabad for a meeting and like the maverick I am, I decided to rev up my trusted old 10 year old Santro and head off into the Deccan. People told me I was crazy, but then I always knew that. Anything to have the steering wheel in my hands and I could drive anywhere. So me and a couple of friends of mine loaded up on the vehicle early one morning and headed off South.
Sameer promised us breakfast at Agra, right in front of the entrance to Agra Fort. He said that the best meals of all varieties were available there. So, when we hit Agra, instead of looking for the bypass which would take us towards Gwalior, we went looking for the entrance to the Agra Fort. Finally found it. And blank. The whole place had been cleaned out as if swept with a broom. Not a thela in site. Not one distant smell of a paratha. No one selling pethas. Not even a chai wallah sneaking behind a tree trunk. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Shams and me looked back at Sameer questioningly. He had a very sheepish look on his face and finally confessed that this was the place to grab a bite when he had come here last. When was that, we asked. Well, five years ago, he said. No wonder. Five years is a long time for the civic authorities to clean up the mess, if that is at all possible in a country such as India. But sure thing, not a vendor in sight. We headed on and somehow found the highway once again and headed off into Chambal country.
The parathas we finally found in a roadside dhaba were delicious. Adding to the flavour was the spicy achaar and to cool off the tanginess in the mouth was fresh curd. Delicious. We spent some time talking to the locals about the ill repute of the Chambal region, its dacoits, and whether they were looters or modern day Robin Hoods. Everyone agreed that life in the region was much more peaceful now and almost all the dacoits had been either bumped off or were in jail. Life was a lot more peaceful and our worries of travelling through the Gwalior stretch at night were found to be largely unfounded. At least as far as these locals we spoke to at the dhaba was concerned. And it was still early morning and we had to cross the other ‘bad’ stretch of the road yet, well before nightfall. The naxal belt between Nagpur and Adilabad.
We raced on. Well, we did not actually. We wanted to though. As soon as we entered Madhya Pradesh something happened to the roads. They just disappeared. A stretch of spanking tarmac followed by miles of potholes. Maybe this was where the asteroids had hit Earth. Deep, deep craters. All the way. We headed gingerly on. My sister lives in Bhopal and we decided to spend a night with her. We told her to expect us around five. At seven we were still a few hours out. Here she was expecting her brother to come spend the night, the kids were waiting to show me some books that they had recently been gifted, the Old Monk was getting increasingly impatient, and here we were parked next to a thela having chai and dal vadas. By the time we parked in front of my sister’s house, it was past ten at night. The kids had managed to stay up just about enough to say hello, and off they went to bed. The Monk kept us company for a while, but the journey on the famed land of the Chambal had taken its toll and soon the three of us dozed off, oblivious to the symphony that our respective snores had on the neighbourhood. Least of all Shams whose snores can actually wake the dead ... on a good day. And today he was tired!
The plan was to leave Bhopal before daybreak, but by the time we heard the roosters and said good morning, the sun was way up in the sky and the promised dosas had burnt on the tawa. A South Indian breakfast was replaced with toast and omelettes and by the time we headed out further south, it was nearly ten in the morning. But we felt refreshed after a good nights sleep. We would be in Hyderabad by late evening. Given my enthusiasm I promised them an early night, maybe even while it was still light. Little did I know that one should never predict travel times when travelling down the heart of India – Madhya Pradesh. The roads entirely disappeared. Actually incorrect. The semblance of what was once a road was distinctly visible. In between the missing asphalt. Often we would stop not knowing which way to go. Crater on the left, crater on the right, an 18-wheeler honking behind us, a taxi blocking our way in front, caught in the same predicament. I lost count of the number of times the undercarriage went bump.
By the time we hit Nagpur it was way past sunset. And the ‘crazy’ stretch, the naxal belt was ahead of us. My information was that the Nagpur-Adilabad road was under construction and going would be slow. A better idea was to take the Nagpur-Asifabad road instead. Ok, we headed down that road. Sameer has a hatred for travelling at night and he insisted we parked for the night somewhere in Nagpur. I did not want to do that. I have always wanted to drive at night because of the traffic conditions I find at night – no rickshaws, no tractors, no schools, no children, no shops, nothing apart from trucks and the occasional bus. And I have no problem with them. My worry was safety. I did not want to become the main player in a ransom story. We asked around and everyone assured us that all was well and we could drive on without a care in the world. Sameer was less inclined and finally he won over. We drove another hundred kilometres or so towards Asifabad, and found a seedy hotel in a one-horse town and parked for the night. As you entered Sameer’s room you were immediately hit with the bold advertisement that proposed you call Babita. Mobile number and all! Babita was given a go-by but the chhotu of the hotel latched on to Sameer (who was sleeping in one room while Shams and me shared another) and insisted on giving him a massage. Sameer did not know what to do and immediately changed and insisted we head on. By this time, old man monk had had his say and we decided to leave early morning, which we did around five.
I called Hyderabad and told them to expect us around noon. Little did I realise that we were still in Madhya Pradesh. By the time noon turned around on the watch, we were still a couple of hours away from the destination. Awful, awful roads. I do not remember if it was Shams or Sameer who opined that National Highways were supposed to be maintained by the Centre and there was no use to blame the State Government for it. But that should hold true for all National Highways. Why was it that when we entered Madhya Pradesh the concept of a National Highway disappeared entirely? And guess what? The worst stretch of National Highway was labelled NH 69. No wonder!!!
We were way behind schedule in any case and there was no point in making any more apologies. We headed towards Hyderabad and finally landed at our destination, late beyond explanation. We were graciously put up in the company Guest House and despite my best intentions at staying awake, waiting for the time when we would head for our meeting, we were snoring like there was no tomorrow. The meeting, informal though it was, happened later in the evening, when we were treated to a delectable meal of dishes from literally all over the world – Greece, Turkey, Arabia and good old India. Tummies tucked, our formal meeting was pushed for the next day and we headed back to the Guest House for a much needed night of rest after the battering our bodies had taken over the past many hours.
We stayed on in Hyderabad for a few days completing the necessary duties, meeting people we had to meet and after having concluded a fairly successful trip it was time to head back again. Oooops. Back in Madhya Pradesh. The thought itself was not welcome, even to me who jumps at every opportunity for a long drive. Sameer had some work in Hyderabad and he decided to stay back for a couple of days. Me and Shams loaded up, cleaned the windscreen of the accumulated dust and headed off. No, we would not take the Asifabad road but the Adilabad road. It was daytime and the naxals would not trouble us. Moreover, my information was wrong, the road was constructed and we could make very good time. Which we did. In spite of the day time traffic everywhere which I personally loathe.
The owner of the dhaba we stopped for lunch advised us to head for Rajasthan from a detour short of Adilabad. A longer route, but a better one he promised. I wonder what happened to me but I decided to go down Madhya Pradesh, albeit through a different route than the one we had come by. We would not head to Bhopal, but would head to Nagpur via Hinganghat and then go down to Jabalpur, Jhansi, Sagar and Gwalior. Hmmm. Bad idea. The craters came back. Not as bad as on the other route, but bad enough. If the roads had been good, as they were till Adilabad, I was targeting reaching Delhi by noon. As luck and the roads would have it, by the time we hit Sagar, it was past midnight and the roads had taken their toll. We parked at a dhaba and slept for a few hours and then headed off again at the crack of dawn.
Got stuck in traffic through the day and by the time we hit Delhi it was past midnight. I should probably have listened to the dhaba owner and peeled off into Rajasthan. A longer route but I guess a shorter one in terms of time. And way more generous to the butt and the car.
But let me give Madhya Pradesh its due. This is not the first time I have travelled down MP. I have done it on a bike a few years ago. The conditions have gotten worse. But MP is doing its bit in population control. Accidents are par for the course. And whether they are a part of NREGA or not, a lot of employment is being generated. We found so many broken down vehicles, they certainly provided employment to a whole lot of mechanics all along the stretch. Spare part owners are making a killing in MP. What good is it to run a spare parts shop if no parts get broken? The roads in Madhya Pradesh ensure a steady stream of income for all spare part shops and mechanics of all hues. Add to that the threat of the dacoits of the Chambal and the Naxals of in the Nagpur-Adilabad stretch, we have hotels, motels, guest houses, dharamshalas, having their rooms booked at all times. Kudos.
Was it a good experience? According to me no experience is either good or bad. The experience just is. It is the memory of the experience that makes it good or bad. As for this ride, it gave me another glimpse of travelling down our wonderful country. And it took me down two different routes. And the next time I head to Hyderabad, I will take the route through Rajasthan. Let’s see how that turns out.
Travel hard. Travel long. And enjoy the experience. Remember the good memories, do not dwell on the bad. After all, it takes all kinds to make this world and when you take the good with the bad it makes for a memorable experience. Have fun.
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