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Travel to Ride at Tableland, Tablelands Horse Riding, Camel ride at Tableland |
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Travel Destination » Travel to Ride at Tableland
RIDING THE TABLELAND
Exploring the Eastern Ghats on a motorbike can be a satisfying, liberating experience
The very thought of the Deccan Plateau makes my spirit play truant. In my mind, I have often wandered over that red hilly expanse. Yet, when on that cold January morning I set off on my Honda motorcycle to explore the Eastern Ghats, I never expected a joy ride so profoundly satisfying.
After biking 39 km on the Pondicherry-Chennai highway, I turned left at Tindivanam on to the excellent Tindivanam-Villupuram road. After about 10 km, I stopped, seeing some men sitting under an old banyan tree. A polite young man directed mein chaste English, to a narrow road easy to overlook.
The gully was a typical countryside tar-cobble patchwork, hardly a pathway. After about a kilometer of hard driving, I reached a railroad where not even the pretention of a crossing existed. I had to get down from my bike and lift the front wheel over each track, a helping hand mercifully elevating the back. But my negative assessment ends here. What followed was a wonder ride through a land I never imagined existed in my country.
The path ahead ran straight as an overhead high-tension cable and disappeared into the horizon. To the left and right, red earth, barren of life, stretched from horizon to horizon — not a vehicle on the road, -not a man, not a beast, not a bird anywhere — only the magic line of the pathway in front, palm trees scattered on the sides and a sun-drenched brightness without end. This was the heartland of the Deccan Plateau.
I have lived in South India for 45 years. Even as a child, I had looked longingly at the red-orange patches of the plateau on my school atlas, hoping that one day I would travel on this giant tableland, and on its vast lonely stretches experience liberty At last, here I was!
One winter, years ago, I was driven on. the New York-Philadelphia highway. For mile after mile, the land around me was covered in snow with not a creature in sight. And I had regretted that my country, bogged down with people, didn’t have such an endless vista to present. I have traveled quite extensively on the Grand Trunk Road, but have never journeyed a mile without meeting cyclists, pedestrians, vehicles, or people working in the fields with their beasts. True, in the US the roads are one-way, therefore one never sees on-coming vehicles. It’s also true that one should not expect to see men and their tractors in snow covered fields in winter. Yet, those endless silent stretches had haunted me all these years.
Now I was avenged, 10 times over! For on this exceptional morning, the road was all mine. True, the gully was not as smooth as the US highway, but no prince of yore on his faithful horse ever galloped on smooth asphalt. Rather, he bounced in his saddle all the way to the castle to slay the demon and free the princess!
I was delighted. My faithful red horse, my trusted Japanese motorbike, jumped and skipped on its magnificent shock absorbers as it galloped down the narrow pathway. For the moment, I was the prince of the Deccan Plateau. All around was my kingdom. And though my steed didn’t have a mane that flew in the wind, my shirt sleeves flapped like a colorful banner. Occasionally, a few naked boys and girls waved at me, and were jubilant when I waved back. And there was the lonely smoker with the longest pipe I have ever seen, seated in front of the smallest hut in my experience.
Five to 7 km later, the faint sound of a diesel engine was a xude jolt to my meditations. Of all things, it was a field tractor that emerged from my right straight on to the road in front of me. From the driver I learnt that I would meet the main road to Gingee a few kilometers away.
At a T crossing I turned left. Immediately the landscape on either side changed from vast dry stretches to green cultivated fields. Road signs showed that I was on my way to Gingee. Then, on my left, about 10 ft below, I saw a delightful mountain stream, its path strewn with boulders amongst which it gurgled and whispered gently. I put off the engine of my Honda, and leaning hard against a rock, felt that I was one with this mountain girl who chattered to herself as she frolicked down the rocks bordered by a cleft of grass here, a gloomy bush there.
I could no longer remain aloof. Removing my shoes, I carefully made my way down the smoothened granite to dip my feet in the icy water. Tired folk crave fora hot foot-bath, but after a long ride, I found nothing as refreshing as standing ankle deep in those chilly waters. Was this babbling brook of Gingee, the little princess that I had galloped to be with?
It is in the monsoons that the brooks of the Eastern Ghats come to life. They begin as no more than puddles, but show a considerable sense of purpose as they wriggle down the rocks to join each other. Swelling in volume, growing in self-confidence, they gather momentum and sweep out the stagnating puddles, filling them up with fresh water. Just the day before my expedition, the mountains had experienced heavy rains.
My musings were interrupted by an earthy, stolid washerwoman who passed by downstream with her burden on her head, hips swaying. I noticed another laundress at work at the next puddle, not 100 ft away. Chagrined, I stepped out of the coursing water immediately, wondering whether the hill women at their natural launderettes had giggled at the sight of a city babu lost in reverie, shoes clutched in one hand, ignition key dangling from the other.
Exploring the Eastern Ghats on a motorbike can be a satisfying, liberating experience
The very thought of the Deccan Plateau makes my spirit play truant. In my mind, I have often wandered over that red hilly expanse. Yet, when on that cold January morning I set off on my Honda motorcycle to explore the Eastern Ghats, I never expected a joy ride so profoundly satisfying.
After biking 39 km on the Pondicherry-Chennai highway, I turned left at Tindivanam on to the excellent Tindivanam-Villupuram road. After about 10 km, I stopped, seeing some men sitting under an old banyan tree. A polite young man directed mein chaste English, to a narrow road easy to overlook.
The gully was a typical countryside tar-cobble patchwork, hardly a pathway. After about a kilometer of hard driving, I reached a railroad where not even the pretention of a crossing existed. I had to get down from my bike and lift the front wheel over each track, a helping hand mercifully elevating the back. But my negative assessment ends here. What followed was a wonder ride through a land I never imagined existed in my country.
The path ahead ran straight as an overhead high-tension cable and disappeared into the horizon. To the left and right, red earth, barren of life, stretched from horizon to horizon — not a vehicle on the road, -not a man, not a beast, not a bird anywhere — only the magic line of the pathway in front, palm trees scattered on the sides and a sun-drenched brightness without end. This was the heartland of the Deccan Plateau.
I have lived in South India for 45 years. Even as a child, I had looked longingly at the red-orange patches of the plateau on my school atlas, hoping that one day I would travel on this giant tableland, and on its vast lonely stretches experience liberty At last, here I was!
One winter, years ago, I was driven on. the New York-Philadelphia highway. For mile after mile, the land around me was covered in snow with not a creature in sight. And I had regretted that my country, bogged down with people, didn’t have such an endless vista to present. I have traveled quite extensively on the Grand Trunk Road, but have never journeyed a mile without meeting cyclists, pedestrians, vehicles, or people working in the fields with their beasts. True, in the US the roads are one-way, therefore one never sees on-coming vehicles. It’s also true that one should not expect to see men and their tractors in snow covered fields in winter. Yet, those endless silent stretches had haunted me all these years.
Now I was avenged, 10 times over! For on this exceptional morning, the road was all mine. True, the gully was not as smooth as the US highway, but no prince of yore on his faithful horse ever galloped on smooth asphalt. Rather, he bounced in his saddle all the way to the castle to slay the demon and free the princess!
I was delighted. My faithful red horse, my trusted Japanese motorbike, jumped and skipped on its magnificent shock absorbers as it galloped down the narrow pathway. For the moment, I was the prince of the Deccan Plateau. All around was my kingdom. And though my steed didn’t have a mane that flew in the wind, my shirt sleeves flapped like a colorful banner. Occasionally, a few naked boys and girls waved at me, and were jubilant when I waved back. And there was the lonely smoker with the longest pipe I have ever seen, seated in front of the smallest hut in my experience.
Five to 7 km later, the faint sound of a diesel engine was a xude jolt to my meditations. Of all things, it was a field tractor that emerged from my right straight on to the road in front of me. From the driver I learnt that I would meet the main road to Gingee a few kilometers away.
At a T crossing I turned left. Immediately the landscape on either side changed from vast dry stretches to green cultivated fields. Road signs showed that I was on my way to Gingee. Then, on my left, about 10 ft below, I saw a delightful mountain stream, its path strewn with boulders amongst which it gurgled and whispered gently. I put off the engine of my Honda, and leaning hard against a rock, felt that I was one with this mountain girl who chattered to herself as she frolicked down the rocks bordered by a cleft of grass here, a gloomy bush there.
I could no longer remain aloof. Removing my shoes, I carefully made my way down the smoothened granite to dip my feet in the icy water. Tired folk crave fora hot foot-bath, but after a long ride, I found nothing as refreshing as standing ankle deep in those chilly waters. Was this babbling brook of Gingee, the little princess that I had galloped to be with?
It is in the monsoons that the brooks of the Eastern Ghats come to life. They begin as no more than puddles, but show a considerable sense of purpose as they wriggle down the rocks to join each other. Swelling in volume, growing in self-confidence, they gather momentum and sweep out the stagnating puddles, filling them up with fresh water. Just the day before my expedition, the mountains had experienced heavy rains.
My musings were interrupted by an earthy, stolid washerwoman who passed by downstream with her burden on her head, hips swaying. I noticed another laundress at work at the next puddle, not 100 ft away. Chagrined, I stepped out of the coursing water immediately, wondering whether the hill women at their natural launderettes had giggled at the sight of a city babu lost in reverie, shoes clutched in one hand, ignition key dangling from the other.
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