I kept wondering if we'd been unknowingly killed by a truck and transported to cyclists heaven --so excellent was the first one hundred kilometers of today's ride. We went on the advice of our waiter from last night, who caught me gazing at a wall map in the lobby and told us to follow a route marked as a track \--one not figuring on any of my three maps---and using that most dreaded of Gujarati words, "shortcut." But the conviction with which he stated that this was our best option made us decide to give it a try. I figured we'd either break the long journey into two days or hire transport anyway.
But here we are in Diu, one hundred sixty-two kilometers later, watching the last light fade from the sky, exhausted and elated over having made it all the way under our own power... The first segment of our ride took us through rolling desert landscapes, the imposing holy mountain of Palitana always visible off to the right. Then we must have dropped a bit, because everything turned green and lush --the most flourishing farmland we've seen in this country so far. A second holy mountain, crowned by an enormous white temple --presumably Jain---appeared in the distance as we passed through numerous serene little villages.
Each of these featured large portraits by the roadside. Most were of a chubby old man wearing little beyond his Santa Claus beard and a satisfied expression, and the few others featured a stiff-looking female deity standing on the back of a crocodile. Virtually every man we saw wore the traditional Gujarat costume of white pajamas, tight in the legs and skirted at the waist, with large gold earrings sprouting out of the centers of their ears. And the few drivers were courteous to a fault --which I attributed to the influence of Jainism, a religion whose most fervent proponents would literally not hurt a fly.
The crossroads village of Jesar appeared after fourty-one kilometers of blissful riding. We stopped here to stock up on the usual cycling treats and liter after liter of water. The inevitable crowd that appeared was more polite than any other we've encountered in India. They kept their distance and posed their questions one at a time. The man running the little shop wasted no time on small talk, asking Fred directly, "What is truth?" From Jesar our route climbed into some high brown hills looking as if they'd been teleported here from California. The study wind practically blew us up the steepish slope, and the long, gentle ride down the other side was sheer pedaling ecstasy, with gorgeous vistas opening out to either side.
Like the route to Jesar, our road was narrow but well-maintained, with hardly any traffic at all. Were we still in India? Rajula jarred us back into reality at the hundred kilometer mark. Dusty beyond description, hopelessly overcrowded and generally chaotic, the town was urban India hell in a nutshell. We considered spending the night here, especially when we passed a decent-looking hotel on the way out of town, but chose to push on. After all, the tailwind was straight from heaven, and if we pushed we could make it to Diu by dark. And we just made it. The last sixty kilometers, back on the main highway, were much tougher going.
The road was in poor repair to say the least and the scenery was mind-numbingly monotonous. But we persevered, pausing only to pump air into my slowly leaking tire every six kilometers or so. I was too lazy to replace it, worried that we'd never make it by dark if I did. And it's true that we just barely made it. The sky was already bright red by the time we pulled into this blissful beachside resort called "Magico do Mar." It's the first hotel coming into Diu, chosen primarily because it spared us the last few kilometers of pedaling into the old part of town.
We've scored a fantastic adoboid bungalow on the beach. The grounds are impeccably landscaped, the food is terrific, and the only other guests are two French women named --you guessed it---Nadine and Liliane. Over a delicious al fresco dinner we convinced them to join us for a drink in Diu town. Their driver took us to a funky seaside place up on a rooftop where we imbibed locally-made whisky, which wasn't bad at all. Here we learned part of the Nadine and Liliane story. They're not a couple as we initially thought, but rather traveling buddies who met on an organized tour of India some years ago.
Of course, being French, they spared us any interesting details, yet we enjoyed spending this last evening with them nevertheless. We laughed when we discovered that Nadine had had the same idea that I came up with in Palitana yesterday, namely that some enterprising person could market the place to Westerners as a spa vacation. All the elements are there: vegetarian food, a vigorous exercise regimen and spiritualism to spare... It's funny how these two women have been such a part of the Gujarat landscape for us, and we're both a little sad that we're unlikely to see them ever again.
Tomorrow our fellow nomadic princessi leave for Bhuj, many hundreds of kilometers to the north, which is neither on our itinerary nor within the range of our tired sore legs.