DAY FIVE - FARDAPUR TO KHANDWA - 260km

KILOMETRES FROM GOA = 1,000

NEAR MISSES WITH COWS = 4 (three of which were today)

The road between Burhanpur and Khandwa in southern Madya Pradesh is notorious. Wide-loads jostle for space through its narrow cuttings. Cargo carriers thunder past one another on its blind turns. Truck-drivers with dead eyes fear and respect this stretch of road. But today one name echoed across the state. A new folk hero roams the highways of the sub-continent.

Shelley Foster has re-written India’s Road Rulebook.

Shelley pushed the rickshaw its final 100km today in a nail-biting two-and-a-half hours. But no matter how expertly she swerved the cows, side-stepped the potholes and timed her overtaking to perfection, it was co-driver Katie, who will be remembered.

Katie, who has spent more hours asleep on the back seat than either Gordon or Shelley has at the handlebars. Katie, who has yet to learn that there’s a third gear between second and fourth. Katie, whose clutch-riding has burned us into our first major repair job. This same Katie took the honour today, of driving us across our third state line and clocking the one-thousandth kilometre since our departure in Goa five days ago.

It was laundry day today, and not a day too soon. A shame then, that fifteen bags should be returned, each containing a random selection of the crewmembers’ clothing. Thongs and odd socks nestled together as if they were meant to be. Every item smelled of the wood fire which was used to dry it to just the right side of damp. Jitu, our Production Manager has promised us a re-wash when we reach Bhopal.

But we were treated to some of the best scenery of the trip so far. Our 260km journey began after a mesmerising look around the ancient rock caves of Ajanta and concluded on a country road lit only by our headlights and a perfect starlit sky.

Tonight, at Khandwa’s crumbling The Grand (Not) Hotel, I share my greying sheets and unwashed blankets with the roaches, bedbugs and Gordon. As the sweet smell of woodsmoke drifts toward me from his pyjamas, I reflect.

Our road to Nepal suddenly feels different. I can’t really explain it, but each of us seems to have taken on a new character, some are Thelma, some are Louise. We lunch with the locals, we grin wryly at state border guards, we wear 50 rupee cowboy hats and eat apples cleaned only with baby-wipes. We respect the cow’s right of way. And whether we drive a rickshaw or follow behind in air-conditioned, slightly reclined comfort, we are one. We are the true King’s of India’s Roads.

We are Shelley Foster’s The Shaw Must Go On!