Chasing Pinto

The first day was just beyond our domain, and imagination.

We — Ashish, Abhinav, Purushottam and me — stopped midway to pick up mineral water bottles, bananas and other stuff to set up a feeding joint near Dharmpur to help MTB Himalaya riders during the uphill stage till Gada Kuffar. And, the news came — not like a bolt from the blue. We had an inkling this was about to happen. Our bolt, Luis Leao Pinto, the World No. 9, had reached Gada Kuffar in style, a la Usain Bolt.

The news came when the ride was hardly 3.5 hours old. Not a single rider in the MTB Himalaya, considered one of the tough ones because of the terrain and altitude, has ever achieved to cover 82km in just 3 hours and 20 minutes. Not a mean feat boy! Pinto proved us all wrong... he seemed to be too pricey to the photographers...to fast for rest of the pack!

We sent a press release immediately that turned out front page story in most of the newspapers howling: "Pinto creates new record in the Himalayas". That night, at Gada Kuffar campsite, we found hardly anyone could take a picture of Pinto, the blaze. Thus, began strategy of "Chasing Pinto".

Cut to Day II. 

Ashish, next morning, punched a few kicks at a sleeping bag in which Samir, one of the MTB Himalaya officials, had slipped into the previous night. The order was simple: "Go and get some pictures of Pinto. He has already started the race. To cover 13km uphill till Matiana, he won't take much time." A bleary-eyed Samir took out his trademark black Canon bag and rushed towards the route. Meanwhile, i thought to have some tea and breakfast at Matiana Bazaar as Ashish was yet to finish his bath and Abhinav was making use of the sleeping bag pretty well in 15 degrees Celsius. 

I met Gaurav, one of the photographers, at the same snacks shop where i was looking for a cuppa. After a rebuke from Mohit, the race director, on Day I night, all the six and odd photographers took position at different locations. Gaurav's duty was at Matiana Bazaar. Let me write a transcript of a brief chat with Gaurav at the chai shop.

Wassup?

Good morning. How was the night at the camp?

Cool; a bit cold rather.

So, you are armed with all your zoom and wide lenses?

Yep. Waiting for Pinto. What do you want? Tea or coffee?

A cup of tea will do. But don't miss Pinto today. We don't have a single picture of Pinto. The press guys were asking for it yesterday.

Nope. I just ordered an anda-paratha. Will you have one?

Why not? But keep an eye on the road. Samir had left at least 20 minutes back to capture Pinto in his camera.

Wow! Such a hard-working chap. But don't worry, i'll be the first person to take his snap this morning. 

Have you seen this Hindi daily? Look, how they have displayed our flag-off ceremony from Shimla.

Superb! We should not have missed a picture of Pinto. Sad.

And, the saddest part was just to come even before Gaurav could either finish off his words, forget the anda-paratha. Pinto, in a red jersey, whooshed past us to take the downhill from Matiana to Mahori. Gaurav's camera was still on the table. I was angry. Gaurav speechless. Will another saga of "missing Pinto" start?

In another 10 minutes, Ashish and Abhinav came with the official car. I stepped onto it to reach Manan to set up a feed zone for the riders. This time i told Ashish we should be ready with our DSLRs. Maybe our pictures won't have that "quality", at least we can send Pinto's one or two pictures to the press. Someone from the Mahori point told us Pinto had left the place a few minutes back. We calculated. We had just 15-20 minutes or so. This time, Ashish told me to take the SUV to 500 metres downhill and he would wait with Abhinav, Purushottam, bananas, juice and DSLR. 

On that bright sunny morning, i was waiting with bated breath for Pinto. Our driver, Amit, yelled out: "Bhaiya, woh a raha hai Pinto!" Tetra pack of juice for Pinto in one hand, DSLR in the other. Which one to use? You can take a picture using one hand but cycling shots need two hands. Amit offered help; he would offer water, juice etc to Pinto. Dilemma over. Focus on DSLR. Ah! There goes Pinto.... on an uphill ride. The shot was over. I alerted Ashish over phone. Then onward, we never lost touch with Pinto. One photographer or the other would have tracked him for the next four days. And, Samir was lucky to have chased successfully to Hatu Peak (11000ft) on the fifth day. A pen drive-full Pinto was with us at the end of the race.

P.S. Samir, being a local lad, knew almost every shortcuts of the hills but Pinto did not give him a chance on Day II uphill. He missed Pinto despite being sent to the spot well in advance. 

MTB Foot Soldier

Dattatreya Patil is not just another passionate biker.

In the myth, Dattatreya — the incarnation of Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshwar — left home at a very early age in search of the Absolute — the moksha. In reality, Dattatreya, too, left home to explore the world on two wheels.

Elusive as the mythological god is, Dattatreya — popularly known as Datta Patil in the cycling circuit — pedals all the way every year to MTB Himalaya. And like the sage of Dattatreya Purana, he too is barefooted. Whoever has done mountain biking knows it very well how difficult it is to ride a cycle in the terrain full of gravel and stone, dirt and streams, mud and springs. But Datta Patil is different. He hardly cares for his toes, which may crush against the rocky surface any time on a sharp bend. We have specialised shoes, some are imported, for MTB but Datta Patil has no wish to change his way of biking.

At 12, he learnt how to balance the wonder two-wheeler. Thirty years down the line, the grape farmer from Sangli, some 380km southeast of Mumbai, has ridden thousands of kilometres across the country. Last year, he pedalled all the way from Sangli to Panipat for spreading the message of “Saving the girl child”. From the mighty Himalayas to the rugged Sahyadri — he mustered courage to cover on the two wheels. His daily routine remains a bit odd. Waking up at 2am, he warms up for half an hour before hitting the road with the steel machine. By the time the children — he runs a district-level cycling club in Sangli for years — starts arriving at the break of the day, he puts up at least 100km. And, it’s not the end of his morning ride. With the children, he does another 50km at least! By 8 in the evening, he is ready for bed.

Surprising to many of us, but this routine has yielded him results. He has not taken a single medicine in the last 25 years. His cycling club where he trains children aged over 10 years has been organising trips to various destinations — from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. As he prepares them for cross-country rides free of cost, he seeks sponsor for the trips and if he cannot find one, he tries to pump funds, whatever little he has, himself. Every year, Datta Patil confers a “Swami Vivekananda Young Achiever” award to one of the teenaged cyclists also.

His presence at any event, especially in the MTB Himalaya, draws an enormous amount of media attention. But it’s difficult for anyone to confirm whether he would travel 2,000km — that’s the exact distance from his village to the hub of MTB Himalaya in Shimla — this year also. But we all know he would turn up at the Ridge on September 27. As I was doing a research on Datta Patil for the past few days, I wanted to talk to him. But he is still elusive. And, hardly anyone knows his cellphone number, if he has at all any. I shot off a mail to an id but in a fraction of second I got a failure notice. “Failure” might be a popular phrase for the mailmaniacs but I hope it’s not in his dictionary. He will remain as the barefoot soldier of hundreds of MTB enthusiasts.

MTB Mania

For a biker in one of the most populous and polluted city, cycling is a curse on the road. Finding a way out in the snarls made up of innumerable cars and buses is near impossible a proposition. Riding at a cruise speed of even 20kmph in the potholed roads called highways can best be called a dream. Inhaling carbon monoxide in every nook and cranny of the green-starved city is just a practice for a smoother, and quicker, journey to death. This is Kolkata where cycling is banned on 172 roads – something unimaginable elsewhere in the world.

Something unimaginable to me too who spent his university days in a serene town, literally known as abode of peace — Santiniketan — where cycle is the favourite mode of transport for students and residents. Something unimaginable to someone who enjoys treading along the serpentine forest path in the Himalayas, or the Saranda. Something unimaginable to an over-ambitious youth who wants to cycle around the world.

It’s all about the perfect balance. It’s all about the green machine. It’s all about the free wheels. Wheels that should know no stopping, no count of RPM, no dashboard to indicate whether you are running out of fuel and no tailpipe, no gas, no power steering, no power window, no AC ducts, no cushy seats with head rests... It’s no-nonsense entity. It’s a cycle. A two-wheel wonder. Why shouldn’t one fall in love with it? Why shouldn’t one take it on the roads that vanish in the greeny horizon of the countryside, why shouldn’t one ride it down the rocky mountains, why shouldn’t one just enjoy the breeze gliding it along the virgin beaches where waves splash on its spokes?

The love for cycling turns profound with a ride on MTB — mountain terrain biking. But what does it take to ride an MTB? Questions were aplenty. Someone told me about trek. What is a trek? Trek with a lower "t" or an upper "T"? For years, trek for me was the expeditions i had taken to Sandakphu or Roopkund. Or Kalatop or Gaumukh... or ...or.... 

But some years back, four digits changed my perception. 3700. Just four digits. I didn’t know the strength of the four digits till i hopped on to one. Some months on, i was addicted to it. Addiction, they say, is bad for health. Is it? Not only to my office and back in central Kolkata, even during Durga Puja, the mother of all festivals in this part of the country, i rode it across the length and breadth of the city. Some more weeks, and weekends, followed. I promoted myself to 4300D. For the uninitiated, these are numbers. For the passionate biker, it’s the Arabian horses in the stable, the Jag in the garage, the Dreamliner in the hangar. Wind in the hair maybe a clichéd term, but for us, the MTBians, it’s something we live with every day, every moment in every turn downhill, in every twists of freeriding. Now, it’s time to break free in the Himalayas with MTB Himalaya, Edition 9.

A Valley Like No Other

The first plan we made it during the rains of 2008. But it just didn't happen that year, and the years that followed till August 3 this year. The early morning mist still engulfed the valley of Ghangaria where we stayed put at a dormitory run by the Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam. The day before, around 2.40pm, i was the first to reach Ghangaria after a gruelling 15km trek from Govindghat, where we camped just for a few hours after starting from Josimath around 7am. Govindghat is an important transit point for pilgrims to Hemkund Sahib, a holy place for the Sikh community, and also for nature-lovers like us who were dying to visit the Valley of Flowers.

A valley that comes second to not another in the Himalayas was chance-discovered in 1931 by a group of British mountaineers. After 70 years when we visited the Valley, it was a more organized trek with the government ready to support the enthusiasts. Surprisingly, 95% of travellers who found accommodation at hotels and guesthouses of the tiny hamlet of Ghangaria were bound for Hemkund Sahib. Only a few armed with macro lens had got up early, battled mule-dung for some time to hit the road spiralling through the forest that leads to Valley of Flowers National Park.

We were no exception. Being in a profession that demands glued to the screen till late in the night, waking up early is a torture and if that happens at a place where the mercury even hardly touched the 8-degree mark around 4am in August, it becomes simply unbearable. And, Rajesh was adept in it. The night before, i told all of my teammates not to push and shove me till everyone was ready except buckling their shoes as i need only 10 minutes to make myself prepared after leaving the bed. As my friends were more than paying any heed to me, i had no option but to join them on our much-awaited trek to the Valley.

For me, reaching the Valley as fast as possible was the only goal then because the first sun ray was important for taking pictures. My experience in the Hills told me of a bright morning ahead even as there was much rainfall the night before. And sunny it was! I was soon joined by Kunal, who was not only a master trekker but had come to the Valley once in 2004. Kunal told me he had not found so many varieties of flowers during his earlier visit, and moreover, they were greeted with heavy rain also. Saugata, our another teammate and who had accompanied Kunal in 2004 also, seconded him but not before i clicked some amazing pictures of colourful flowers of the Valley. Suddenly, within 15 minutes after reaching the Valley, it was cloud all over the hills where visibility dropped to zero for some time. Obviously, we did not expect the snow-capped peaks would create a scenic background to the lush green hills with yellow-mauve-pink-red-white-blue flowers dotting the kilometres-long Valley, but we did not imagine it can be so cloudy that even taking macro-mode pictures would be near impossible.

What took the cake besides capturing hundreds of frames at the Valley was the breakfast there. We packed our stuff — simple one with aloo-paratha and aloo-jeera — at the GMVN trekking resthouse to enjoy it at the lap of nature. And, water was aplenty: fresh mineral water directly from the melting glacier that we could see from the Valley. The best part of our trek was that only at Valley of Flowers we were not disturbed by the fleet of mules rather we could feel nature at its best. Serenity was redefined at the Valley where silence was only occasionally broken by sun-birds and flower-peckers. Bees, as we found, were literally busy-bees oblivion to shutterbugs like us! When we were coming back, i made a resolution to revisit the Valley, maybe like Margaret Legge, who died in a freak accident there in 1939, as embracing death amidst Nature is unique, too!

World of 3 Wheelers!

Invention, and more importantly innovation, of three-wheelers always intrigue me. For example, auto-rickshaw. Who was the visionary to have thought of this revolutionary transport system in the third world countries (incidentally, developed nations nowadays also use this mode of public transport)? Millions of commuters across the world are hardly bothered about the origin of it but are obviously surprised to notice its change over the years.

Auto-rickshaws that i was used to ride since childhood can hardly be seen now on Kolkata roads. With its kata-tel (a proportionate toxic mix of diesel and kerosene)-guzzling engines, these blue and white tiny little things were over-zealous to overtake any vehicle that came into their way. Since old habits die hard, the drivers of LPG-run green-yellow autos here also try to zoom past everything.

In Bangladesh's Kushtia, i found during my recent visit, the traffic scenario is no better with vehicles snaking their way through the main thoroughfares. Amid all the hullabaloo, suddenly you might see a Tuk Tuk tries to get past your Toyota sedan. Tuk Tuks are very convenient way of commuting in any Bangladesh towns, generally densely populated in a little space. These Tuk Tuks are usually battery-driven and carry five persons, excluding the driver, and surprisingly all these come from China. In fact, Tuk Tuks are colourfully decorated with enough space for ventillation unlike our autos. One won't feel suffocated but will enjoy the ride even if you are waiting at the signal or the railway level crossing.

On our way to Silaidaha, where Tagores had zamindari, we stepped onto Korimon after crossing the Garai on foot. Now what's that? It was not a new thing to me, as this motor-driven cycle-vanrickshaw is a common sight in this side of the fence, too. But the name is interesting: Korimon. What does it mean? I have never figured out though i asked several people there also. And, Google can't lead me to a page on Korimon to say whether i am lucky!

If Korimon was not enough, a motorised cycle-vanrickshaw surfaces with a customised shed on it to protect people from sun and rains. I asked our van driver, "What will you call that?" "Nosimon". What a sweet name that was! A three-wheeler that runs on diesel with engines of motorcycles smuggled with makeshift shed for passengers and an unforgettable name — isn't it itself interesting to an urban youth like me? While i was crossing the Benapole border near Bongaon, and boarded an auto-rickshaw, my mind was still stuck in the sheds of Nosimon! Wish i could ride such a Nosimon everyday!

Change of Vision

Stunned! After days of trekking along the mountain, forests and valleys, we hit one shop almost hanging on the edge of a road. A small village shop selling every other stuff for daily requirement like soaps, masalas, vegetables, noodles among others. For the past seven days then, we had covered some 85-odd km that included trails where we negotiated 3ft deep snow at an altitude of 14000ft! While coming down, our feet were trembling like palm trees on a windy beach. Our job was getting all the more difficult as we had to keep our pace controlled in the thick mid-altitude pine forests amid drizzling. The shop at Wan was a perfect discovery at a perfect time.

Wait.... more surprises were in store for us there besides cakes and bananas that we gorged on. Noodles, biscuits and dry fruits were our means to survive in the higher camps. Fresh fruits — brought from district headquarters Uttar Kashi, no less than 80km from the shop — were cuisine royale in the sparsely populated village where one can get rice and squash curry at every other kitchen though. Incidentally, we enjoyed a pint of country liquor at the village on our way back to Loharjung, our base camp for Roopkund trek that summer.

As i was fiddling with my camera to look for Himalayan birds — enthused by several rare sightings — in and around the shop when my fellow trekkers were browsing food stuff, suddenly my five-point focus stopped on a face that i have never expected to find in the region. Maybe i forgot that i was in Garhwal, one of the few places in the country famous for beauty — both natural and human. Maybe i forgot the concept of rustic beauty... maybe i forgot to capture beautiful faces... maybe i was waiting for the moment to unfold before the high-zoom camera i was using then. Stupefied, i started taking her pictures but not fully satisfied.

This dissatisfaction led me to buy an SLR for taking better portraits. Later, i realised that i feel more comfortable in framing portraits than taking landscape pictures. A beauty at a Himalayan village shop changed the way i should look at the world with the viewfinder. And it was a new beginning: the search for human faces....

Breakfast at Dunera

Two aloo-parathas for breakfast on a sunny morning when the mercury nearly touched the 0-degree mark the night before refreshed me like nothing. That morning, January 5 this year, i was dropped by Jammu Mail at Chakki Bank when a blanket of dense fog made my task difficult to even look for a chai-wallah — forget to find my way out. Like an angel when a shawl-wrapped chai-wallah appeared from nowhere, i considered myself fortunate enough to warm up a bit when the clock just ticked 6.30. Within minutes, he also mingled in the blinding fog that now deepened like clouds in the upper Himalayan regions. I, who the morning before was in the plains of Kolkata, stood in silence thinking whether to go for GPS tracking or take out a compass as the sailors took recourse to in time of shipwreck or mid-sea cyclones!

Stranger things always happen in strange places. As northerly wind blew past my pullover, i was taken aback by an old rickshaw-wallah asking me where i am headed to. “Banikhet,” i replied short. “Beesh,” shorter was the answer. Only about a week later i realized where i had got down, what was the street the rickshaw-wallah took amid rows of eucalyptus to the bus stand on the national highway. A patient wait for about 30 minutes was intermittently interrupted by asking every other bus whether it would go to Dalhousie or Banikhet and “nahi” was the word blurted out by conductors peeping out of a half-open window when sun was still eluding the north Indian town.

As i was thinking to take an auto-rickshaw to Pathankot’s terminus, some 6km from there, a green-and-white Himachal state bus stopped in front of me, and surprisingly the conductor opened the door and told me to step inside! Wow! “But how can you make out I was going to Banikhet?” i asked the 50-ish gentleman in khaki. “I know, you are going to Youth Hostel,” he politely told me. Is he a mind-reader, or face-reader? “No, for the past 15 days or so, I have seen youths like you are waiting here and you must be going for the trek?” Now, the reply with a smile. Yes, I was the last to join the last group last winter for the Dalhousie trek. He also made an arrangement for an aisle seat on the right three-seat row just diagonally opposite to the front door. My inquisitive eyes made a study of faces — mostly wrapped in either shawl or monkey caps — around the bus till i found two beautiful women sitting just across the aisle on a double seat. They — Aditi and Gaganmeet — later became good friends of mine as they were also joining the same trek.

But, what about food? Hungry as always i am, I asked the conductor while paying the Rs 65 fare will the bus stop anywhere between Chakki and Banikhet? Dunera, he told me. A small lower altitude Himalayan village on the highway, Dunera was a great relief that day. For 14 hours or so, i didn’t have good food after a dosa delicacy at a restaurant in Dwarka with Ujjwal and Ipsita. I grabbed the two unusually big aloo-parathas on a bench off the road with the first sun rays shining like gold that morning. It seemed as if i had been served water after crossing a glacier without a drop as i gulped hot tea down the drain called mouth. For me, Dunera is not just a stopover point but a memory to cherish in times of monotony of life.