A few weeks ago we did a scooter trip inland for the weekend. It mostly went well - lots of nice scenery and pretty villages:
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| Born to be mild |
However, at one point we thought we weren't going to make it back again...
On the map, it looked like an excellent route. How wrong could I be. Instead of an idyllic run through country lanes, we ended up battling through 20 miles of iron-ore strip mining. The roads were choked with lumbering lorries which had to squeeze past each other. The air was thick with red dust, the day baking hot, and the road potholed and slippery.
The endless line of trucks would occasionally come to a stop and turn off engines. Then Carrie & I, on our small scooter, would have to work our way down the middle of the narrow road - quickly ducking in behind the parked trucks to avoiod the oncoming traffic. At other points the jam would suddenly start moving again, and we'd have to race to avoid being caught in the crush. After getting us through the first few miles, the scooter seemed to deserve a name - so now it is known as 'Stewie'.
We were the only europeans we'd seen all day, and we felt very lost and vulnerable. There was a little local traffic - a few motorbikes and autorickshaws. At one point all this lighter traffic branched off the road and started heading across the plain. How odd we thought, noticing this too late to follow them.
Soon after the road just ceased to exist - replaced with potholes that'd been created by an elephant on a pogostick. We bumped and wobbled along. Stewie grounded in the deepest holes, and was banging against his shock absorbers. We didn't dare stop because of the trucks rushing behind us. Waah! Frantically trying to keep our balance, swearing as Stewie, and in a state of terror we made it through.
One of the hardest things about this route was that we had no way of knowing how much more quarry traffic there was to battle through - or whether we were on the right road - or whether we were going to end up in a dead-end somewhere. None of the truckers were very forthcoming with directions. Our chances of making it out were looking quite slim.
We were resuced by a Goan from one of the very dusty villages we struggled through. It must be hellish living there. He passed us on his scooter, double-taked, and asked where we were going to, 'Ponda!' we yelled, and he said 'Follow me' Then he hared off down the middle of the road, swerving at each of the oncoming trucks, so forcing them onto the verge. This left space for him to continue to accelerate down the center of the road, with us in close persuit.
After about 10 minutes of playing high-speed chicken the traffic improved and he motioned that we should take the next right-hand turn. With that our dusty knight of the road shot off. Once we turned off we were soon out of the red hell, and back in green and leafy Goa. We were caked in red dust, and Stewie has developed some interesting new squeaks. I don't think we'd better tell George (who we rent the scooter from) where we've been this weekend.
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