Then it started.

Driving down a humble rural road, we were flagged down by two policemen, who demanded - for the first time in our trip - vehicle docs, passports and licences. Irritated, we dragged out the ritual until they capitulated into just glancing at our passports. Then it got weirder. They demanded we sit with them in their office, without any explanation why. This was followed by a language-barrier stunted monologue on how many years he’d served, his rank, and how many girlfriends he had, etc. During this time, we were left to wonder why we weren’t allowed to leave; and what was being ‘arranged’ for us.
And what was it? A send out for vast quantities of soft drink (which became very sickly, very quickly), more colleagues, and delicious traditional Indian breakfasts. In retrospect, a delightful gesture; if only we had had a choice in the matter!

Moving swiftly forward, and after a driver switch, a gamely pressed the engine up towards 70 (after a previous ‘limit’ of 60) until the noises it emitted suggested maybe, just maybe, that was pushing our luck.
First it stuttered, then on the newly found inclines it flat-out stalled. And from there on in, it just got worse.
We tried letting it cool down, which bought us barely 2 more minutes of driving. So then we tried starting blankly at the engine, while sucking air through our teeth - as we’ve seen mechanics do - and yet still nothing.

Flummoxed, and somewhat unwilling to push our suddenly very heavy tuktuk up any more hill, Ben pressed on up the road to look for civilisation (in hindsight, unlikely as we were in very rural Himalaya); briefly pausing to catch the eye of an alpha male monkey. A very angry, very large, alpha male monkey.
In his absence, the newly-enraged monkey consoled itself by sitting on a tree stump and slapping its backside, poised for Ben’s return.
As Ben innocently ambled back down the hill, the monkey leapt to block his path, hissing, baring teeth, and tightly coiled for attack. Inexperienced in the ways of the monkey fight, Ben simply mimicked the monkey with hissing and arm gestures; throwing in a few extra shadow kicks for good measure. What followed was a tense back & forth war dance while I tried to regain enough composure (being paralysed with laughter is admittedly not a good survival mechanism) to point our now defunct tuktuk back down the hill and push it up to enough speed so Ben could sprint from angry monkey and roll to safer pastures. To my ever lasting regret, my camera battery had died only moments before.

Post monkey, in a remote Himalayan valley with a dead engine, we were very much trapped. Of the few people around (as there always are, everywhere, in India), none were of much use.
Mercifully, after much collusion, a 4×4 carrying 10 Sikhs agreed to tow us 17km to a mechanic. Fairly straightforward… except they did not have a towrope. No, they had a turban. Dumbfounded, we watched as they wound a turban, and then tied it to the front of the tuktuk and the back of their jeep. By the time the journey was complete, I had been demoted from honorary tuktuk driver (accused – falsely I might add - of braking, thus snapping turban #1), and we had been gamely quizzed on everything from the number of girlfriends we possessed to the nature of our sex lives. It transpired the driver, at 28, had already accumulated 6 children. With one girlfriend between us, no children and little more than a lump of metal on the end of a turban to our name; we were clearly going to be their dinner party anecdote for a very long time.
They dropped us in front of some greasy looking fellow who we were told was a mechanic - or at least a man with tools - who called up more greasy men with tools to follow him on his mission to strip our engine of every last working component until it was utterly, completely, dead.
By this stage, 300km from the finish, we were seriously contemplating everything from a new tuktuk to a donkey to actually reach the finish line.
Three hours later, at a cost of just three pounds, and by some unknown miracle - (along with much mirth from the ‘mechanics’), our desolate faces were lifted… the engine first roared into life, then purred harmoniously. Lotus couldn’t have done a better job than these guys. We were back!

With the entire day gone; we settled at the first hotel we found - a surprisingly upmarket place in a very ramshackle village - which lacked a hot shower, but more than made up for it with a hot swimming pool (and bizarrely, gin but no tonic, “gin & fanta?” was the offered compromise…).

Another observation of Indians - along the same lines of ‘coolness’ - is they are initially quite reserved; and react to match your manner. A good example was a typical showcase of insanity - a 5km detour that took over an hour, at night, on a single raised dirt track through fields, with cars/jeeps/tuktuks/motorbikes jamming into every last little bit of space - left us stuck alongside a car packed with Indian students. All of whom simply stared rather angrily at us.
Throwing caution to the wind, I gave them a little wave… and in rapturous unison the car erupted with gleaming smiles, energetic waving and a excited chorus of ‘HI!’s.

The action of dropping back into India put our already pressured time into a potential crisis. The days that followed involved serious hard driving, staying in various non-descript cities and coaxing engines that were finally starting to wane with the heat and the burden. We did discover - when another team broke down - that stopping a tuktuk causes traffic chaos… not because of their dimensions; but the truly immense crowd (in a very over populated country) that rapidly swarms in to ‘help’ (and then extorts money for whatever they’ve done - in that case nicking a piece of metal and proclaiming it fixed).

As we progressed, we steadily lost our convey to minor mechanical failures until we were alone; finishing a dull stretch in a place called Hardiwar - predominantly notable (to Westerners at least) as the place where the Beatles stayed and penned the White Album. And notable to us as a religious city where you cannot procure beer nor meat; we did not stay long.

First, it proved once and for all that these mechanical marvels can take anything that we can throw at them. At first they pulled up steep tarmac tracks; and when those expired; steep, rutted, rocky mud paths.
More interestingly, we got to meet some mountain village dwellers, who were not only lovely, they also opened up their kitchen to cook us all a simple-yet-sumptuous local dish. Their only request being that we donate any small change we could spare to support two elderly women in the village, who did not have the support of any family; and who - apparently - had taken to trying to throw themselves off the tallest building on a fairly regular basis. Whether true or not, it was the least we could do in return for our lazy lunchtime experience.
The only downside was being frequently stopped - and in some cases temporarily detained - by local army check points, and chancing villagers who had erected makeshift barriers. In one case, a young boy gave us an official looking ticket for 22 rupees, and then upped it to 100 rupees when we tried to pay. When I stepped out the tuktuk he ran off; leaving us to pass through without paying anything… A financial ‘bust’ for the enterprising young fellow.

Katmandu - the capital - lies in a valley; and as with all valley-dwelling capitals suffers a serious pollution problem. Not content with this, it is also crowded, dirty, noisy and extremely touristy in ways rarely seen (Khao San Road for those who know the reference, hawk ridden and neon-clad for those who do not; only with an added mix of shifty drug pushers and tired old prositutes). Did I hate it? No, it had a certain bustling charm; but nor did I like it.

Thankfully, the hotel was charming enough, and helped us get our rickshaws off the road; which was handy given they are technically illegal in the city centre (we were warned not to venture in; but as with all things around here; in reality no one seemed to care).

We left early, fearful of the ‘treacherous’ road to Pokhara - Nepal’s second city.
In reality, the road was ideal - smooth, wide, and surrounded by stunningly lush mountain scenery. The downside? We had 250km to travel, minimal fuel, and the strikes had rendered Katmandu petrol-less. As a result, the mood became tense and we were forced to freewheel down the steep roads (something not altogether unpleasant, as it afforded us the chance to listen to the air rustling passed us). It was not until the 9th pump we tried that we struck liquid gold; and finally relaxed.

One particular little entertainment were the hoarding’s for　Nepal’s premier water park. On paper, it looked magnificent. Later, when we stopped to play on a huge rope bridge over a big river, we spotted this ‘fantastic’ tourist attraction. Just as it was in the poster… but in miniture scale. One small plastic frog, a small mushroom, and a short plastic slide into something little larger than a pond. Yet still it drew a reasonable - if apparently unenthusiastic - crowd. Sadly, a fear of frightening the locals with our reflective white skin meant we could not partake in the exhileration.

We ended in Pokhara; which was worthy enough to become the one town we spent two nights in. On the surface, it does not demand too much respect, being as it unashamedly geared towards tourists. But within 24 hours I have developed a serious soft spot for it. A leafy collection of attractive buildings, lazily scattered around a large gentle lake, nestled in a valley of lush green mountains; with truly massive snow-capped mountains in the background.
After a heavyish night of beer and gin &　tonics, we arose at 5:30am to do a day trek through small mountain villages (where children reflexively shout ‘hellogotsweets’); before returning to relax and do minor tuktuk repairs. I cannot dedicate anymore time to describing this place, other than to say it is the perfect antidote to the rampage and carnage that we are otherwise engaged in!

Looking forward, we are now under serious time pressure. We have no slacktime for problems; and need to average 300km a day across bad roads and against rebels in order to make it to the finish party. Will we make it? That’s the fun part!

Nepal, as a very brief overview, is amazing. First there is the beauty - of the Himalayan foot hills and the people. With all due respect to India, racially the Nepalese are very distinctive in their strong, symetrical warrior like features - which makes the men handsome and the women beautiful. (And speaking of being distinctive, they are the only place I know of that uses a 15 minute time difference to subtlety state ‘we are not India’). Personality wise, the country is far more relaxed and extremely friendly. In short, we love it.

Sure enough, we stumbled upon Maoist blockades; generally employing trucks, buses, trees or mobs to block the road. Initially, this was great fun - doing hard off roading to avoid the blocks and benefiting from no heavy traffic. There was only one alarming incident, where a very angry mob surrounded the rickshaw and their leader attempted to smash our windsheild with a bamboo cain. Unfortunately, as we were in convoy, we could not simply charge through (we might have succeeded, but others would not). On the flip side, the convoy probably saved us; as that many tourists could not be discreetly ‘dealt’ with. The agitator waved his willy a bit and gained the approval of his friends; then begrudgingly let us on our way.

In the night we decided to stop on a nature reserve. We drove 3km down a dirt track, pulled up under a big sign that said ‘Nature Reserve’, and were promptly confronted by a soldier with a gun. You see, unbeknownst to us, the Nepalese army had taken control of the Reserve for training purposes, shutting down the tourist part. Fortunately - or maybe just for the money in our wallets - they were accomodating. They dusted down dorms and slayed a ‘chicken’ (quotes for meat of dubious origin) so that we might sleep and drink in a very idyllic back-to-basics locale, surrounded by all manner of animals - including 5 elephants!
In the morning, to return the ‘favour’, we were rather forcibly coerced into giving 3 Nepalese teens a 80km lift to be reunited with their family. After a shy start, they quickly warmed to the minor celebrity that comes with travelling in this bizarre convoy, and were beaming and waving at everyone we passed (interestingly enough; the effect was reversed for us, and with natives on board we were given slightly less warmth than normal - someone even threw a rock at us - most likely for transporting locals during the strike).

We ended up in Hetauda, where we could not find a restaurant for love nor money; although we did find two other teams who had driven through the night to catch up. Why had they caught up? Because one team had two days in dashing distance of a latrine; and the other team had serious mechanical malfunction due to a crisp packet in the air filter…

With this in mind, and the sage advise to not rag the engine, we hurtled toward the border with the throttle at full power. And because things started to almost appear manageable, we elected to push on into the night. Night driving is like day driving; only without the benefit of being able to distinguish what is coming toward you. Fortunately for India’s economy, if not for us, other drivers have no issue with this and continue at their usual pace and style (incase it hasn’t sunk in yet, that’s “fast” and “reckless”).

As the second day dawned, and calmed by our rest, we once again felt the trepidation for the madness that awaited us. Fortunately, this melted away within seconds of gripping the handle bars; and we pootled on alone. After the morning to ourselves, we were caught by other teams and all hell broke loose. Tuktuks became all terrain vehicles, any gap - even if it meant going sideways - became fair game. We were no longer reacting to traffic chaos, we were causing it. Truly, the tuktuks could take some punishment: pot holes at 50, mud, water, speed bumps - you name; they handled it.

Two events in particular stood out.
The first was our ‘attack’, and the second my being kicked by a corpse…

As we crossed a bridge that explicitly said ‘max speed 20kph, no over taking’ - doing 60kph in oncoming traffic - we were rushed by a very angry, heavily armed security guard who also had an 8ft bamboo pole, that he repeatedly swung at our rickshaw, and from the whites of his eyes, presumably he dreamed of doing the same at us. Only humble (ok, profuse) apologies got us back on the road in one piece.
In the afternoon, we came upon a heavily blocked road caused by a head on collision between two trucks. Keen to continue apace, I walked into the mob to look for a route through. Here I discovered that there were two fatalities; and the crowd was growing. No one spoke out against us, but they directly advised us to turn back. Much to my consternation, a fellow rickshaw pulled up with a video camera, and my awareness of mob mentality heightened. Having found a small gap, I opted to rapidly return to the safety of the rickshaw. Only with my back turned, I felt a tap from behind, and looked back to see 4 men carrying a corpse, using its feet to clear a path - a path I was very clearly in!
Travelling in convoy, we creeped through the parting crowd and squeezed between the recoiled trucks; pausing briefly for another rickshaw to play ambulance to an injured man, carrying him to the nearest town.
After covering 450km in one long day, we arrived in the border town of Siligiri, where we fought our way into a hotel room that was being occupied - in the military sense of the word - by a large, disgruntled cockroach.

Even more ominously, my credit card had snapped; my debit card would not work; my electrics could not be charged; and we were lacking in much of the gear other people seemed to have brought. This was now a challenge!

But following a pleasant train ride, where we first encountered the very genial nature of the locals, we arrived in Calcutta to find it filthier, noisier, more run downer, and redefining ‘crowded’. And poorer to boot. But what it lacked in general amenities, it more than made up for in sheer personality. It felt very homely, and was intriguing to walk around. In particular, the dingy back alleys of the market bazaars at dusk; where all manner of automotive things were being sold, welded or made. We know this, because we were looking for ‘accessories’ for our brand new tuktuk. Many opted for stereos, lights, and other modcons. We simply wanted a horn. And not just any horn, we wanted an industrial show-other-road-users-whose-boss horn. Having found a suitably deafening model; and taking care to find additional wiring and buttons, we were heart broken to later discover that any attempt to use our new fangled life-saver would instantly drain our tuktuk’s battery. And so all that was left to be done was paint some ‘art’ onto the bodywork (I quote art on the grounds that anyone who has seen me or Ben draw will understand).

The start of the rally - mercifully on a Sunday - was in a local school that lay on some festitivities. These involves the ‘honour’ of the school kids utterly humiliating us on the basketball court - a scene that involved slow, heavyset, white and sweaty westerners vs. lythe, talented, uniformed teens. Worse, - as we later discovered from a hotel manager in a fit of giggles - we’d been on live Indian TV.

With absolutely no test runs (and no clue!) we lined up for the start; and were escorted out of Calcutta by a police convoy that was more invested in getting us out than keeping us safe. And with good reason… Within 5 minutes two teams had broken down; two teams had forcibly broken parts of their tuktuk; and one had ‘tested’ reverse, much to the surprise of the person behind them, and smashed their brand new rear light.
The race had begun!