DAY FOURTEEN - TANSEN TO POKHARA

TOTAL DISTANCE FROM GOA = 2993km

This morning I lost my breath for a few moments. This wasn't the sight I'd been expecting when I pulled back the curtains. We set off from Goa two weeks ago with a clear goal, but I doubt any of us had really given much thought to the moment we would first set eyes on the roof of the world.

Today’s drive of course, was spectacular. I couldn’t help thinking of National Geographic images I’d seen when I was young, wondering if I’d ever get to see them first hand and whether they even really existed or were just the result of some photographic trickery. But sure enough, here they were. Bathtub after bathtub of water, freefalling hundreds of feet down sheer rocky slopes and splashing onto the side of the road right next to us. Nuclear green rice terraces piled one on top of another, cladding mountains, which scraped an immaculate blue sky. Needle thin bridges spanned mile-deep canyons. And at the bottom of valleys you had to lean far out to see the bottom of, thundering white water crashed over rickshaw-sized rocks. Somehow the road clung on to the mountainside as it twisted through jungle and past villages. Hour after hour, turn after turn, a new angle on the same vast valley, or a completely new one, even more breathtaking than the last.

And there were no power lines to interrupt the view, no picnic spots with wooden tables, no lay-bys with ice-cream vans or Sunday drivers sitting on fold-up chairs, drinking tea from flasks. Just mile after mile of smiling Nepali faces, children waving us on, pushing us forward to our goal as if they already knew our story.

The rickshaw took it all in its stride, cruising its last 200km without breaking a sweat. In the crew cars, our leap-frogging system came into its own. Our single problem – we just had too many shots to choose from.

This was our final day’s driving. And this was how we reached Pokhara. Six hours on the road and the most perfect day of the whole two weeks.

Our final descent into the Pokhara Valley became a race against the setting sun. Arriving at the finish line at the Lake View Hotel was something of an anti-climax. Perhaps the need to film our final sequence got in the way of true emotions. And in order to squeeze in the extra day’s shooting we needed, we’d always planned to arrive a day after the recommended finish date. The Rickshaw Run isn’t a race, but crossing the line 54^th out of sixty, only to be greeted with the stories of the procession and party the night before left us feeling like we’d missed out a little.

And there really hasn’t been time to reflect since. I’m sure over the coming couple of days it’ll sink in, exactly what we’ve achieved. For now though, I can sum up by saying that we all agree that we prefer Nepal to India. The last three days here, north of the border have felt like one long sigh of relief.

I can say without any doubt that our twelve days travelling through India made us all feel sad and frustrated. From the simplest things like the inconvenience of waiting an hour for food at lunchtime, to the most significant, the tragedy of a country, which has found no way to provide the most basic care, sanitation and education for the majority of its people.

All this I can say with authority, after watching every inch of life along three thousand kilometres of road from the Arabian Sea to The Himalayas.

But like any visitor to a strange country, the memories which will last are the good ones. The constant change in scenery, the curiosity, friendliness and welcome of the people and the surprises, which have stunned us at every turn.

We’ve stumbled upon forgotten, deserted forts, which Britain’s National Trust would be proud of. We’ve slept in beds more fit for dogs. We’ve hidden ourselves in back rooms in towns where few western people have the need or the desire to go. We’ve sighed with the relief of surviving crossing a surging river on a raft, only to face the threat of bandits on the other side. We’ve changed tyres in torrential rain on farm tracks, miles from civilisation - without a jack. We’ve climbed, cruised, honked, bumped and clattered our way across an entire sub-continent. And through the ups and downs, we’ve bonded as a team - thirteen people working together like clockwork, sharing emotions, baring secrets and pulling each other through some very tough times.

And now, from my hotel balcony on the lake here in Pokhara, I’m looking out at the ridiculously tall peaks of Annapurna, covered in snow and glowing orange. This is the sight which was always here to greet us. And whether it’s something we’d considered two weeks ago in Goa or even lost sight of along the way, it’s a view we now know we’ve fully earned.

DAY THIRTEEN - LUMBHINI TO TANSEN

At three o’clock this morning, I sat bolt upright in bed. If the lightning hadn’t struck the hotel roof above us, the crack of thunder had certainly woken up everyone in the crew (apart from Katie). The thought of today’s drive kept me awake – consumed by images of a road, which we knew had already claimed at least one rickshaw.

The flat roads of Uttar Pradesh were behind us. What lay ahead were the mountainous foothills of the Himalayas. We already knew we faced the threat of landslides and muddy adverse cambers. Now for me, a big decision - to take the longer, safer but visually less splendid route. Or to risk lives and take the more direct road to Pokhara, which would climb almost immediately up to 1500 metres and test the rickshaw’s uphill stamina and the road-holding of its three tiny wheels.

With our Executive Producer’s expectations in mind, I decided to cast our fate into the hands of Lord Buddha. So after breakfast, we crossed the road to the place where he was born.

What a serene place. And what a place to reflect on the journey so far. In a peaceful garden, strewn with the ruins of the Maya Devi temple, payer flags fluttered from the tree where his mother, Queen Maya Devi is said to have gone into labour more than two-and-a-half thousand years ago.

Monks on pilgrimage strolled the gardens with nothing more than their orange robes, a single bag of simple belongings, a digital camera and a handphone. As we paid our respects, the rainclouds cleared, the sun came out and Buddha whispered, “Take the mountain road.”

“This is a man who knows good telly.” I thought.

Back at the hotel, Virendra our mechanic changed a balding tyre and assured us that The Shaw was ready for her assault on the Himalayas. Today’s drive would be slow and steep, so we decided on Tansen as our destination and hit the road.

The drive was incredible. We hit a landslide almost as soon as we began to climb, which made us all wonder how passable the following 100km would be. But soon enough, the mud and rocks cleared and the fun began.

We’ve made it to the Hotel Sri Nagar, 50 metres above the bustling hill-town of Tansen, perched high up in the middle of the Western Range in the south of Nepal. Katie and Shelley are playing with the kids in the village. Around them, pigs and goats roam freely. Our evening meal is about to be served on a balcony, which hangs over a plunging valley, and our cosy beds await in wood-panelled bedrooms with net curtains. Maps of mountain treks and panoramic photographs of the Annapurna Range cover the reception walls. Racks for muddy boots and hooks for hanging wet Gore-Tex remind me of hiking in the Lake District. But Great Gable and Scafell would look up in awe if they were to meet the peaks here.

With the afternoon mist rolling in, it’s hard to tell what kind of views we can expect come morning. But I have a good feeling we’re in for a nice surprise.

Tomorrow our long journey will end. This evening, it feels like we can see all the way back across the whole of India to where we started two weeks ago in Goa, and see forward the last 200km to our destination, far below in the Pokhara Valley.

If there was ever a time to reflect, this is it.

DAY TWELVE - MAU TO LUMBHINI

Last night we arrived in darkness in a town without a welcome. When we woke up this morning, our suspicions were confirmed. This was a dangerous place.

Mau had not been on our itinerary and Varanasi had been the last real port of civilisation before we pushed on north to the border. Mau was an unplanned, halfway point, only meant as a place to rest after a half-day’s drive. We simply wanted to keep on schedule, but hadn’t really considered the risks that might involve.

On arriving, we knew things weren’t quite right. There was no reception desk and no welcome drink.The old man stooped and wheezed as he grasped the rusting handrails and led us up a rotting staircase, past pan stained walls we could just make out in the dim light of the odd bare light-bulb.

Mau is a staunchly Muslim town and despite our combined cultural understanding - my living and working alongside Muslim friends in Singapore and Katie and Gordon living in Dubai – we knew this place we were in right now was probably very different. Who could tell what people were whispering? Who knew how many white TV crews had pulled up in this town before? And if they had, who knew how many had left the next morning?

Up until now, The Grand (Not) Hotel in Khandwa had been our benchmark of bad. But this place, our hotel without a name was surely the lowest we could ever expect to go.

I caught a whiff of the old man’s dirty wife-beater as he drew back the bolt on the outside of our door. We’d become used to having padlocks on the outside in other towns. But here I couldn’t help thinking how they might be used to lock us in rather than keep others out. Daylight would not come a moment too soon.

I stood in the doorway with my bags, as the old man hopped around the room, his sarong flapping as he tried to stamp on an insect – probably a locust.

For the second time on this trip, I SMS-ed Ian, our Executive Producer in Dubai to let him know our situation and our exact location. He replied, promising to send in the troops if he didn’t hear from us by breakfast. I took some reassurance from that as I dozed off to the sound of the aircon whinging and the hum of the bugs in the filthy carpet and blankets.

Morning came, no troops required and another international diplomatic situation avoided. We quickly packed our bags and hit the road. The town of Mau would be our last stop in India and it couldn’t have been more fitting.

Another milestone for us today - we left India and crossed the border into Nepal. No amount of customs clearance, invitation letters or carnets can really prepare you for what happens on the day. We had initially considered smuggling all of our HD camera equipment and Caucasian bodies across the border. But by doing this, we would run the risk of everything being confiscated if it was found. We decided instead for the more formal approach – to bribe our way through.

It worked like a dream and in less than an hour, we had visas in our passports, all of our equipment, unchecked and still packed and the cars now parked, undisturbed just metres on the other side of no man's land. We’d made it into Nepal.

We've headed 25km off the main route to the small village of Lumbhini. Tonight we'll fall asleep in the foothills of the Himalayas and wake up in a most appropriate place.

Lumbhini is the birthplace of Buddha and suddenly, there’s a very zen feeling among the crew.

DAY ELEVEN - VARANASI TO MAU - 114km

To find words to describe Varanasi calls for writing skills way beyond those of a blogger. The best I can do is to use Bladerunner as a reference. Ridley Scott may well have taken inspiration from this city, but if he hadn’t, he could have done a lot worse than to hire the art department responsible for creating the other-worldly Manikarnika Ghat.

The smoke hangs in the air here from the fire, which is kept burning 24 hours a day by the untouchable dom. Logs are stacked in grim piles bigger than houses ready for burning the dead. Filthy water gushes from ornate, rusting balconies. The crumbling gothic buildings built one on top of the other are derelict apart from the cows, which wander the empty hallways like zombies and stand motionless in floor to ceiling holes where windows once framed The Ganges from opulent colonial living rooms. Sadhus sit cross-legged on every available inch of flat surface, from the water’s edge, way up to the roofs of the highest buildings, staring blankly across a river, which disappears, swirling into the mist. At dawn, their orange robes and the flames of the funeral pyre were the only bright colours we could make out amid the brown and grey.

For me, Varanasi has always been India. I think the Ghats were the first images I remember seeing, and they’ve stuck with me. The Taj Mahal is a picture post-card. The Gateway of India is a good spot to sit with the family and eat an ice-cream. And Delhi’s Connaught Place is perfect for shopping and a nice meal. But Varanasi is the unashamed, filthy guts of the country. It feels like all the bad you’ve ever heard about India can be found within a couple of blocks of the river. Charming would be one way to describe it. But it’s also sinister, menacing and more than a little bit disturbing.

It’s not unusual to feel out of place in a strange city. But in Varanasi at dawn this morning, I also felt out of time - a few hundred years out of time. We’ve passed through towns we’d describe as medieval, we even spent a hundred kilometres yesterday driving past village after village of houses made of mud and sticks. With its bicycles, carts, hand-drawn wells and gas lamps, the Varanasi I saw this morning certainly never got round to embracing the industrial revolution .

We mis-calculated slightly yesterday. We did in fact have a day in hand to get to Pokhara, but using that day would mean us arriving at the finish after dark. We decided to drive for half a day today, and to overnight halfway, instead of going the full 200km to Gorakhpur. The only catch was that instead of taking the NH29 National Highway via Ghazipur, we were directed wrongly out of Varanasi onto a narrower road. A longer route lay ahead of us, packed with bicycles, motorbikes, cargo carriers and endless villages, which spilled out onto the road. It didn’t help that The Shaw has developed yet another problem, this time with the gear box. Our half-day jaunt turned into another after dark slog.

We’re all exhausted, and with setbacks like this, our on-time arrival in Pokhara on Saturday is now coming down to the wire. All of a sudden, I’ve gone from feeling confident to feeling tense with the pressure of the challenge.

I felt a little uneasy on the road this afternoon. A bit like the feeling you have the morning after waking from a nightmare. I feel lucky to have seen Varanasi. The Ghats were as impressive as I’d imagined them to be. But those images I had as a boy have changed for good, and this dark feeling might stay with me until we leave India.

DAY TEN - REWA TO VARANASI - 243km

Today it rained. It was the first real downpour we’ve had since leaving Goa and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. We’re all exhausted. We’ve hit the wall and this blog will be the shortest so far.

Today we entered our fifth and final Indian state. The next border we cross will take us into Nepal. Uttar Pradesh was presented to us in spectacular fashion today. The road to the border had been flat and straight for hundreds of kilometres. We had no idea we had been travelling at a relatively high altitude, so it was a surprise when the road started winding downhill and suddenly opened up to reveal a plateau a few hundred metres below, which stretched as far as we could see.

It was spectacular from up there, but as we made our way down and further into Uttar Pradesh, the charm we’d seen and friendliness that we’d felt from the people of Madhya Pradesh was suddenly gone. The roads felt more dangerous and there were trucks on their sides in ditches to prove it, and the relative ease we’d found to drive from Goa to here, had now been replaced with something closer to road-rage.

So it's confirmed, this really has been the challenge we heard it would be. We always knew there would be a point, around this time when our bodies and minds would give up. Today was that day and it came over all of us in various ways. Katie was stung by a wasp, which was enough to bring on the tears she probably needed to let out. And the rain brought everyone down – in the rickshaw it was cold and wet and it took a lunchtime power-nap and an afternoon of chocolate to sort the girls out. Gordon was snappier than ever - not surprising considering the multiple engine niggles he had to deal with.

We need good food, fruit and sleep. Hopefully that will all come tomorrow. In the meantime, we have a 5am call and a dawn shoot at the Ghats here in Varanasi tomorrow morning. Just what we need right now.

Tonight we’ll sleep in our eleventh bed since arriving in India. Three more to go before we return to our families and friends. But when we do, I know we’ll have forgotten the bad stuff and only have great stories to tell.

DAY NINE - KHAJURAHO TO REWA - 208km

Two days ago, whilst driving along behind The Shaw in air-conditioned, slightly reclined comfort, we noticed the whole body listing to the right. It was particularly noticeable on left hand bends, and the thought of the rickshaw skipping, drifting or even rolling into oncoming traffic was just too hard to bear.

While we were checking out the erotic art at the Khajuraho Temples, we found a place to get the rickshaw checked over. The diagnosis - the chassis was cracked. Ouch!

It’s funny seeing something you’ve grown to love, pulled apart. Call me sentimental, but seeing the entire cab, from the wheel arches up, lifted off and placed to one side made me wince. For the first time since meeting our little orange friend, we’ve seen what lies inside. The Shaw lay there helplessly, guts and entrails exposed, hands poking around inside, just wanting to be fixed so it could continue north, the final 1000km to Nepal.

After four hours of welding, the cab was lifted back into place and The Shaw was back on the road, and driving like a dream.

We’ve started counting down the days now and making rough calculations on our schedule and arrival date. The intention has always been to arrive together in Pokhara with all the other rickshaws by the 26^th. It’s five clear days to do about four days’ worth of driving.

So we’re ahead of schedule, but it’s hard to know how to use that day. The crew is getting tired now and a day off would certainly be welcome. Steve and Steve the cameramen are feeling it after running around in the heat picking up shots. Katie, Gordon and Shelley are exhausted from ten hour days at the handlebars. The bumpy roads of Madhya Pradesh and the late arrivals after dark every day are making things very difficult. Even the blogs are suffering… this one has taken days to finish.

The sensible option would be to hold onto our spare day as a wild card in the event of us experiencing any serious delays. But right now, all anyone can think of is a day spent in bed.

The ancient porn was brilliant, by the way. We all learned a few new tricks and Gordon discovered that there’s more to life than Missionary. Splendid.

DAY EIGHT - SAGAR TO KHAJURAHO - 208km

Tomorrow we shall be learning some new sexual positions. In the meantime, this evening we’re sitting on the roof our hotel in Khajuraho gazing at a sun setting behind a horizon dotted with temples. These are the temples famed throughout the world for their erotic sculptures, which we’re assured, leave nothing to the imagination. Gordon is very excited.

It’s the perfect end to what the entire crew agrees has been the best day so far of our fourteen day odyssey from Goa to Nepal.

Today, nothing went wrong and everything went right. The scenery changed from flat open plain to mountain roads, which snaked through jungle, before bursting out into a landscape strewn with piles of smooth sand coloured boulders the size of Smart cars.

Naked children waved from the doorways of whitewashed cottages covered in large blue script. Sadhu Babas stood barefoot at the entrances of bright orange Shiva temples with flags rippling in the wind, waving to us as we flew by. All this contrasting against the biggest blue sky I’ve seen.

Everything felt different, but most noticeable of all – it was clean. For the first time since leaving Goa there were no smells of rotting flesh, no piles of rubbish to drive through and no shit to avoid stepping in by the side of the road – human or otherwise.

We filmed a series of some of the best driving shots of the The Shaw since we left Goa. Somehow our leap-frogging system worked like clockwork, one car remaining behind the rickshaw at all times for safety, the other racing out in front to look for the next bridge, series of tight turns or wide panorama, setting up in time to capture the rickshaw as it emerged over a brow or around a bend.

As usual, we let the rickshaw define the pace. This is one thing we’re proud of on this shoot, that almost all the shots, are real – we rarely call the guys back for a re-take. It’s the only way we can stick to our tight daily schedule and make it to Pokhara by the 26^th.

At one point, the rickshaw skidded to a stop and Shelley jumped out, camera in hand. Water buffalo, which she’d been so excited about seeing when we met back in Goa, were right next to us by the side of the road, wallowing in a pool of thick brown water.

From the road, we spotted a deserted fort high up on a hill. A local kid on a bicycle led our convoy off the main road and up through the narrow alleyways of a pristine village. At every turn, more and more kids ran alongside until, by the time we reached the path up to the fort, we had a trail of fifty people leading the way, asking us questions and peering into our viewfinders. The fort itself was immaculate, but there wasn’t a security guard, ticket booth, post card stand or ice cream stall in site. We stood on the ramparts, with a clear view back to where we’d come from and on to where we were going.

We’ve made it to northern Madhya Pradesh. A stone’s throw to the north is the border with Uttar Pradesh, our fifth state. Beyond that, the mighty Ganges flows past on its way east to the Bay of Bengal. This is the first time I can picture what we have left to do. I’ve studied our maps, trying to imagine what it will be like driving north, leaving India, the country we will be so familiar with, and driving on into the unknown.

In just a couple of days we’ll be standing next to our orange auto-rickshaw at the ghats on The Ganges in Varanassi – what I imagine, for me, will be the highlight of the trip. Another city, another hotel and another crowd to gather round, check out our ride, examine our maps and grope and feel Shelley and Katie.

Meanwhile, tomorrow morning at sunrise, our imaginations will hopefully be captured once again, by the sculptures here at Khajuraho.

DAY SEVEN - BHOPAL TO SAGAR - 207km

When driving through built up areas in major Indian cities, pay attention to what’s above, as well as around you. Among the things to especially look out for are high voltage power cables hanging at roof-rack height across narrow side streets. Failing to do so will almost certainly result in disaster.

After somehow managing to successfully transport the rickshaw, both support cars and a crew of thirteen across the Narmada River yesterday evening, on a river ferry slightly larger than a jumbo box of matches, we were sure that today’s drive from Bhopal to Sagar would be a breeze.

But as I watched the power cable snag on the rickshaw’s roof-rack, all I could think of was a street awash with a sea of sparks igniting The Shaw's 5-litre reserve petrol can, which is prone to leaking.

Put simply, the entire roof-rack and luggage were ripped completely away from the roof of the rickshaw, and with such force that Shelley found a rusting piece of roof rack coming to rest just inches from her head. The bare metal had slashed a four-inch hole in the soft top.

For a split second, our journey to Nepal was hanging in the balance. But in India, no solution is much more than a few streets away and one hour later and 120 rupees worse off, we left a welding workshop and hit the road with a functional roof-rack, which vaguely resembled the old one, but with a touch more character.

We set out east across the wetlands of Madhya Pradesh. Along the way, we stopped off at Sanchi, one of India’s oldest Buddhist sites. After lunch, our biggest off-road challenge to date as National Highway NH86 turned from smooth open road to farm track. It took five hours, a tyre change and a knee-deep ford crossing to limp the final 60km in the dark, into Sagar.

But our series of mishaps and inconveniences today pale into insignificance when you look straight into the eyes of people your own age, who have lost parents, children and entire families in a disaster, which was beyond their control.

Earlier in the day, we’d used what little time we had before leaving Bhopal to pay our respects at the memorial, which has been erected in the community that lives outside the walls of the Union Carbide plant just north of Hadidia Road.

The city is still trying to recover from the disastrous chemical leak, which killed more than 28,000 people that fateful December night back in 1984. Even today, the name Bhopal resonates with tragedy.

We passed the halfway point today. Mixed reactions abound as we consider travelling the same distance again. It’s certainly reason to be proud – we’ve taken a two-stroke, 150cc three-wheeler 1,400km and halfway across the world’s ninth largest country in a week.

But seeing every inch of the road from Goa at ground level has had an inevitable effect.

I watched a video my wife had posted on Facebook this morning, of my one-year-old old son walking for the first time. When I return home to him, I’ll do my best not to forget the images of babies here, with only their mothers’ arms to lie in, of children stepping over stiff dead dogs on their way to school, of rows of men using those same roads as a toilet and entire villages buried by waste because the local governments are probably so corrupt, the money intended for refuse disposal lines pockets that need it much less.

And in Bhopal, a city that should have learned more than most, that high voltage power cable has probably been hanging at roof-rack height across that street for a year. If we hadn’t pulled it down, it might have remained unrepaired until it eventually caused damage to someone a lot less fortunate, in so many more serious ways.

Incredible India? Most definitely. But so often for the most tragic reasons.

DAY SIX - KHANDWA TO BHOPAL

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.

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!

DAY FOUR - BEED TO FARDAPUR - 240km

The centre of gravity of a fully laden Bajaj auto-rickshaw lies somewhere between the roof and the roof-rack. So when you’re cruising along a country road at 60kph and swerve to avoid a cow, you’re probably going to spend a couple of seconds on two of your three wheels.

When you look up to see a truck coming at you from the opposite direction, you’ll swerve again and end up spending a couple of seconds on the other wheel.

In situations like this, there’s really only one thing left to do. Pray.

Traveling behind in air-conditioned comfort today and watching this and other events unfold brought it home to me – what we’re doing is actually a little nuts. It’s made me consider, with utmost respect, each of the ten days’ driving that remain before we trundle that final few kilometers across the Pokhara Valley in Nepal.

Nevertheless, after a breath-taking descent into Fadepur Village this evening, we’ve arrived safely and on time here at our jungle retreat, just a stone’s throw away from the ancient caves of Ajanta. Deafened by cicadas and sipping on luke-warm Fosters, we live to tell the endless tales of one more day on this utterly bizarre road-trip.

Katie spent her first day at the handlebars. In truth, she spent around five minutes, held firmly in place with a roll of the crew’s gaffer tape. And with a convincing blend of enthusiasm and reluctance, she took to the road. But by repeatedly dropping the clutch between fourth and second, and almost throwing Gordon and Shelley over her shoulders through the Perspex windscreen, she masterfully relegated herself, after just four kilometres, to a blissful afternoon of sleep, nail-buffing and random ramblings as the rickshaw clattered its way north, winding through the sublime hills, valleys and meadows of central Maharashtra.

Lunch today - Pizza at Domino’s in Aurangabad. A spread fit for a junk-food-starved traveller, which made tonight’s fluorescent-lit return to the dhal, chicken masala, chapatti and rice, all the more satisfying for the westerners on the crew.

I’m pleased to report that we’ve now furnished the rickshaw with an on-board porta-potty. A five-litre water flask “borrowed” from our hotel room in Beed this morning. It’s intended that Shelley’s hourly nature stops will be a thing of the past and the flask will be the key to our unhindered path to the Himalayas.

And to rant on unnecessarily about Shelley’s stolen camera, Gordon’s empty wallet at a petrol station, Shelley’s stolen handphone and two rear-end bumps in lunchtime traffic in Aurangabad would detract from the true spirit of our journey.

Oh, and call me naive, but as I learn more about (some) Indians and their habits, I've only just realised that that probably wasn't dog-shit on my shoes yesterday.

For a surreal glimpse of life aboard “The Shaw”, check out the video clips at www.tamrickshawrun.com

On a more reflective note, the entire crew is beginning to feel like Goa is a distant memory. But for each of us, the road to Nepal remains a long one, whether Katie’s driving, or not.

Cows may be the only things that stand in our way.

DAY THREE - BIJAPUR TO BEED

CURRENT SPEED RECORD = 80kph

Today we almost lost Katie in a near gang-bang situation with a handful of Maharashtran tractor-drivers. More on that later.

First though, will the person who feeds his dog leftover tikka masala and then walks it alongside the road between Sholapur and Tuljapur, please find somewhere else. There’s only one thing worse than sitting in a car for ten hours in 28 degree heat, and that’s sitting in a car for ten hours in 28 degree heat with dog-shit on your shoes. Both feet.

Right, the guys ran out of petrol this afternoon. It’s rare for the support vehicles not to be within sight, but nevertheless, instead of sitting tight, Katie decided it would be best to hitch a ride back to the nearest town. So with blonde hair tousled by the wind and her sheer summer dress backlit by the low afternoon sun, she stuck her thumb out and caught a ride with a truckload of horny farmer’s sons.

Support soon arrived in the shape of a fuming producer, who is now in the doghouse because although he said our programme should truthfully represent the real journey to Nepal, he apparently forgot to mention that kidnap was to be avoided at all cost. What hurts most is that it was only an hour earlier that he and the crew had surprised Katie with a birthday cake. Perhaps it was that after eating just over half of it herself, the sugar rushed to her dizzy little head. Bless.

Meanwhile our Indian crew found themselves entangled in some shady behaviour in a toilet at the border of Karnataka and Maharashtra. Traveling with three HD cameras, laptops, disk drives and a western TV crew would normally cost an arm and a leg. But they finally left that cosy little room behind the guard post with a mere greasing of a palm… so to speak.

Our Production Manager Jitu also managed to rustle up Katie’s birthday cake from a local cake shop, complete with candles and icing, in just under eight minutes flat. As I said before, Katie ate more than half.

A couple of quick statistics worth a mention: Shelley now holds the current speed record, clocking an incredible 80kph on the flat (no tail-wind). And Katie became the only person we know who can sleep peacefully in a speeding rickshaw for more than two hours without stirring. That happened shortly after the sugar-rush wore off.

Finally, for anyone who maintains a jack is an essential piece of equipment in any vehicle, we say “think again!”. Check out our A Blonde, A Brunette And A See-Saw method at www.tamrickshawrun .com.

So the end of a long, tiring day fraught with frustration and plagued by frayed tempers. Day into night, through rain and shine, two hundred and seventy kilometres, each of which has tested the team’s stamina, patience and sense of humour.

Now in my hotel room in Beed, I clean my shoes and contemplate the rugged terrain of central Maharashtra. Another two-hour-long lunch-on-the-run at some fast-food place in Aurangabad will break tomorrow’s journey. A few extra litres of spare fuel ought to help keep the peace.

Nepal does feel closer now, but I think we’re all starting to realise that our safe arrival in Pokhara will come at a price.