Bandit country. Tiger infested jungles. Thieves and rapists. Ten cars had been robbed in these forests in the last year, their drivers and their families murdered in cold blood. If only we had stuck to our original plan, our drive to Bhopal could have been quite pleasant.
Back at The (Not) Grand Hotel in Khandwa, the day had begun like any other. Breakfast was dry toast, with a scrape from the bottom of Gordon’s empty Marmite jar, washed down with a cup of something brown and wet, which may have been tea or coffee. We checked Facebook (using our GPRS USB thing) and even made time for a proper route-planning meeting.
The crew of twelve had their bags packed and were checked out in record time. Batteries charged, radios tested, water loaded and in the shade of a leafy tree outside the hotel, our mechanic made his final routine checks, testing lights, checking tyre pressures and assessing the stress caused by Shelley’s driving yesterday.
Now that I think about it, I’m sure I remember a dog bark, a bird sing and the buzz of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance.
The crew were upbeat as we ducked through Khandwa’s railway tunnels and took to the open road. Into fourth gear and an air of confidence drove us on. Onward to The Himalayas.
At a level crossing, we shot with three cameras as Katie, Gordon and Shelley stood shoulder-to-shoulder and gazed at the endless carriages of a goods train as it rushed past us and continued east, focussed on its mission across a lush green landscape under an enormous blue sky.
But beyond those tracks, our route to Pokhara would change, our journey would change, and so would we.
Over lunch in Harda, locals informed us that the bridge over the Narmada River at Hoshangabad would be closed to allow hundreds of thousands of worshippers to take part in a religious ceremony. Crossing the river was key to our route north to Bhopal and we couldn’t afford to lose time, maybe a day, waiting for the bridge to re-open. Instead, we planned an alternative, cross-country route, which would involve a river ferry crossing 30km downstream followed by a 70km drive along jungle roads, which may or may not be paved.
The thought of tigers and bandits never occurred to us.
We found the ferry crossing in a village at the end of a long forest road. The road ended suddenly with no sign of a jetty or ramp. At our feet, the fast moving, wide waters of one of India’s monstrous holy rivers. We stood and stared in silence.
The villagers confirmed that the ferry was running and that it would take vehicles. But the rough tracks through sand and mud down to the water’s edge were not meant for a three-wheeler.
So we pushed, pulled and lifted the rickshaw through the mud, wheels spinning, engine rasping, her frail body groaning as the quicksand held its grip. As the ferry approached, we saw more and more motorbikes lining up on the shingle beach.
It was a rope-pulled ferry, little more than planks held together in various ways, enough to float, but with gaps between them big enough for a person to fall through into the dark surging water beneath. Three of the battered wooden planks were put in position, one end in the mud, the other resting on the edge of the raft. Even before the rickshaw was wheeled down the beach the planks began to sink into the mud.
With the sun already setting, we knew we had less than an hour to get all three vehicles across, one at a time before it was too dark. Gordon sat at the handlebars, lining up the three wheels. The planks creaked and moaned as twenty yelling villagers struggled to lift The Shaw up onto the deck.
It was quite a sight, watching Katie, Shelley, Gordon and cameraman Steve float off to the opposite bank. The rickshaw’s unmistakable blue luggage tarp was just visible above the heads of forty passengers, clinging on to their motorbikes as the listing raft was pulled toward the crowds at the edge of the forest on the opposite bank.
Small fires began to burn along the banks of the river. Today was the eve of the nine day Navratri festival and as the sun set, the villagers sent burning offerings out onto the river, all set to the soundtrack of the Dandia dance music, drifting across the water.
The rickshaw made it, and somehow, so did both cars but as we regrouped by candle-light beneath a temple on the north bank, villagers started murmuring. They tried, but failed to understand why we were driving an orange rickshaw to Nepal and they warned us to take care on the forest road ahead.
It’s a long story, so I’ll cut it short. There were indeed tigers in those forests. They could have seen us, but we never saw them. There were probably bandits, but they let us drive by. But just the knowledge that they were there, and the fact that we’d all made it safely across the Narmada River was enough for us to be thankful that we arrived in Bhopal safely, albeit very late.
Most importantly, it’s given us the reality check we needed, and at just the right time. We’ve seen the real India today. We now realise that we’re not tourists, and now know that we must treat our journey with utmost respect.
At some point during the coming 48 hours, we’ll cross the halfway mark. Our journey to Nepal will involve the same amount of driving as we’ve done so far to here from Goa. We’re humbled by what we’ve seen but remain inspired and excited by whatever may lie ahead.
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