5400 - 6400 miles: Mumbai to Chennai

We could scarcely believe it. A 10 mile boat ride across the bay from one of the most populated cities in the world and we found ourselves cycling in some kind of tropical idyll - palm trees, quiet roads with white oxen pulling carts, buffaloes wallowing in the shade and people easily going about their business without a care for us.

Late in the humid afternoon heat we passed through a village with a massive crumbling coastal fort overgrown with jungle climbers and surrounded by coconut groves that cast a beautiful mottled light over everything. Friendly people waved and smiled from rustic, brightly coloured colonial style houses with red tiled roofs. It was the first of a thousand tropical cliches.

We cycled south with the Arabian Sea and setting sun on our right and the distant hills of the Western Ghats on our left. We camped the night on a sandy beach and drank Sean's wine while we cooked, then slept to the sound of the waves and in the morning swam in the sea. Tracey fed the beach cows our scraps of greens and we cycled past sandy beaches, coconut groves and shady villages and then sweated up over rocky headlands and sped down the other side to more beaches, coconut groves and shady villages. We had a fantastic lunch in the small resort of Murud, in the shade looking out to sea with a roost of Flying Fox bats in the pine trees by the shore. We caught the first of many small wooden ferries across a wide estuary, past the island fort of Janjira to the village of Dighi, where dozens of brightly clothed women were carrying tiers of metal water jugs on their heads from the well. It was a very steep climb out of the valley and even in the late afternoon shade we sweated buckets. From the top we could see a long sandy bay flanked by trees and found our way there to watch the sun set. We camped on the beach, washed in the sea, cooked under an impossibly starry sky with shooting stars and slept to the sound of the waves again. Next morning it was so beautiful we decided to stay a day. Tracey caused excitement when she cycled to the nearest village to buy supplies - she paid 70p for a kilo of fresh cod like fish and a handful of king prawns and I gutted and skinned them on the beach and made paella for lunch.

It took us two weeks to cycle the 300 miles from Mumbai to Goa. It was probably the best cycling of the trip so far - the scenery and days seemed to blur into a cycling paradise - beautiful tropical scenery, deserted undeveloped sandy beaches, heavily scented groves of flowering mango and fruiting cashew trees, traditional fishing villages, the hoots and whistles of Coucals and Drongos, friendly people wearing colourful clothes and smiles, making coffee and omelet amongst the pines while watching dolphins out at sea, crossing rivers in a variety of wooden boats and dug-out canoes. Most of the roads were quiet with hardly any traffic, though the surfacing was so bad at times we were being shaken apart. We camped mainly on beaches watching the sunset and cooking under the stars and at the fishing villages of Valneshwar, Malvan and Vengurlu we stayed in lovely simple accommodation overlooking the sea.

It is a mainly Muslim stretch of coast, more bhurqa than bikini. Zuber Amed, a young muslim man invited us to stay a night in his house in the village of Bankot as the canoe to the next village had stopped for the evening - it was an interesting insight into local life and culture - the house had no toilet (a trip to the beach was required) or running water and we were eaten alive by mosquitoes in the night as we slept on the floor.

As we made our way south the hills separating the bays got steeper and higher and the tropical sun was fierce, it was the most physically demanding cycling since the mountains of Turkey. The tops of the hills were grasslands scorched brown by the sun with red rocks and earth, where villagers laid out thousands of small white fish to dry - the stench and heat was nearly enough to knock us off our bikes. In the valley bottoms large rivers flowed down from the ghats to the sea, their banks cloaked in mangrove forests.

I have a diary to record our route and some of the many highs and lows of each day. Looking back, the entry for 1st Feb seems to capture some of the essence of our journey down the Konkan Coast: "Eating 2 dosas each for lunch at Dabhol; washing our clothes & selves in a clear tropical stream when we were so hot; watching the sun set with tea/coffee and bourbons on the beach at Guhagar; new stove is major jet furnace; nearly lost pans washing up in the sea; had to tell two blokes to leave us alone while i was naked after washing in the sea (it was dark); scorpion in kit; v. tired; woken at dawn by thud of coconuts being picked by man up a tree."

Crossing into Goa I suffered shock at Western culture after being away from it for so long - white people everywhere in tiny swimming costumes eating pizza and pasta and drinking beer. Tracey thought it was great, describing it as "like being at home only hot and tropical". We based ourselves for two weeks at Arambol beach (Camden Market-on-Sea), which may have the highest concentration of old hippies and white people with dreadlocks on the planet - they are if nothing entertaining to watch and put on an informal show of yoga, circus skills and bongo drumming on the beach at sunset every night. The sea, beaches, palms and international food of Goa were enjoyable after the madness of India but at times the Goa scene was a cliche of itself that I found both amusing and sad but not in a good way and I left Tracey on the beach for a few days and went inland to the tropical forests of the ghats in search of wildlife and some sanity.

From Arambol we cycled south past the package holiday resorts to the state capital of Panjim, on the banks of the Mandovi River. Having been built by the Portuguese it was quite charming for an Indian city. From Panjim we rode south-east and after a hot and hilly day in the saddle we camped in a cashew grove at the foot of the ghats. We were up before dawn to beat the heat and ascend the 1000m high ridge before us. We had two maps, both showing a major road over the hill but we found ourselves pushing the bikes up a very steep and rough dirt track through the jungle and when we came across a villager with a machete he indicated that it only got worse. It was a major blow and after two hours we found ourselves cycling back past our campsite and spent the remainder of the day riding through the blistering heat amongst hundreds of quarry trucks covering us and everything in red dust, back to the coast.

Cycling on India's National Highways is never pleasant but we had no choice but to endure a day and a half riding south with the noisy and dusty trucks and buses into the state of Karnataka before we could again turn inland to ascend the ghats. When we did it was such a joy to once again share quite country roads with bullock carts and the scenery of wild tropical forests and fast flowing streams as we sweated our way up the winding mountain road was beautiful. Once we had crested the ridge and rode out onto the Deccan Plataux our joy soon turned to disappointment. We had been expecting a lush, green, hilly landscape of forests, paddyfields and estates of spices, tea and coffee but found a hot, dry, brown and heavily cultivated place where once again we were the centre of attention for the enthusiastically friendly and curious Indians whose jaws seemed to hit the floor as we passed and who yelled after us in their Kanada dialect in a primitive manner.

As we made our way south-east towards Mysore the midday heat was nuclear - 40C and increasingly humid. If you wish to recreate our cycling conditions at home then try riding a cycle machine in front of your fire with your central heating on full and a hairdryer on "hot" blowing in your face. We cycled from pop stop to pop stop and were drinking over 3l of fluid a day each, most of which perspired straight out of us as curry flavoured sweat. To make matters worse, Tracey had a heat rash which could only be alleviated by covering her skin from the sun. We sought refuge at Bhadra Wildlife Sanctuary in the Baba Budan Hills and the Forest Department allowed us to stay in their Resthouse (for a not inconsiderable fee) - it was basic (scorpion in the sink, tree frogs and geckos in the bathroom) but had a wonderful breezy veranda overlooking a huge lake with layers of forested hills beyond that are home to tigers, elephants, bison and leopards (we saw deer, a wild chicken and bear poo).

Rested and re-motivated we rode through the hills, mist laying in the valleys at dawn, through forests and coffee estates and bright green paddyfields. Out of the hills we tried to avoid the worst of the heat by stopping for lengthy all-you-can-eat thali curries and could barely get back on the bikes after lunch. We were wowed by the intricate stone carvings of the 12th century Hoysala temple complexes near Belur and the 10th century jain statue of Gomateshvara at Sravanabelagula, the world's tallest monolithic statue that looks serenely over the surrounding plains from a temple atop a smooth rocky hill. We had cycled 500 miles in 12 days and were hot and tired by the time we rode into Mysore, through the eye-watering industrial smog in the dark.

We rested and saw the sights but the presence of tourists in Mysore has turned the locals into the most annoying touts we had encountered - or perhaps it was the heat getting to us. We rode south-west from the city and after lunch had reached Nagarhole National Park in the Western Ghats, which is part of a the Nilgiri Hills Bioshpere Reserve, a huge tract of forested hills on the borders of three states. We enquired at some safari lodges about visiting the Park but they were expensive even by London standards, let alone India. Storm clouds built in the heat and we spent two hours sheltering in a small temple as the cooling rain fell in buckets in one of the wettest places in the world.

In fairness everyone told us the road ahead was not safe on bicycles due to wild animals, but then people have been telling us that the next place down the road is not safe since we left home. It was getting dark when we approached a Forest Dept checkpoint at the entry to the National Park. We expected to be told that we could not proceed until morning but they raised the gate and waved us on - which in hindsight was at least negligent if not plain stupid. It was soon clear we had entered a wild forest and decided to make camp near to the edge of the Park hoping there might be less animals about. We pushed the bikes along a muddy path and found a good spot in some bamboo forest. It was after we had pitched the tent that we noticed the elephant poo and the giant bamboo trees that they had pushed over and I remembered that they ate bamboo. We used branches, bamboo and our bikes to create an enclosure for extra security. As darkness fell lightning lit the sky, thunder rumbled and all around there were howls, hoots, screams and whistles of wild animals and birds. If felt like the most dramatic place in the world.

I wasn't worried about the leopards and tigers but elephants were a different matter. We had read several news stories in the local papers of villagers being killed by elephants and a jungle lodge elsewhere had told me that they did not like people and may attack. Unarmed, we would not stand a chance. We agreed that if we heard the pachyderms approaching we would grab the bikes and leg it. Once in the tent the flaw in our plan became clear - if we were asleep we would not hear them until it was too late. I laid awake all night rigid with fear, straining to hear the sound of approaching elephants over Tracey snoring next to me. The forest was full of animals, twigs were snapping, peacocks were crying alarm, deer were barking. It felt like the longest night of my life and I have never been so grateful to see the dawn.

The storm had passed and we cycled through the beautiful dry, brown forest on a "road" that was rubble and shook my front loader apart. As we were carrying out makeshift repairs a Forest Dept Jeep pulled up, advised us to be careful as there were lots of elephants in the area and drove off - they didn't even ask if we were OK or needed any help - every man for himself out here. The forest went on for miles and we saw Spotted, Sambar and Barking deer. At one point we passed a tribal village, many of their homes were small and flimsy, built from mud, bamboo and thatch they looked like they wouldn't withstand the monsoon let alone a herd of grouchy elephants - I couldn't imagine what it must be like living there. Some miles further on we both pointed in amazement as an elephant was lumbering through the jungle almost alongside us. There was a moment of mutual shock as the elephants trumpeted and thundered away from us and we legged it down the road. Once we were at a safer distance from each other we watched the 3 elephants for quite a while through binoculars and they watched us - until the one that had been staring straight at us and flapping its ears started moving in our direction - when we decided it was time to leave. It was an incredible experience and the adrenaline made my legs tremble.

After several hours we reached more tribal villages, where they had built platforms in the trees near their paddyfields so that they could scare the animals without being attacked. Further on we reached a larger village and a tarmac road and then crossed the state border into Kerala and back into wild animal territory in Waynand National Park. We cycled along a forest road that we would return to the following evening on a jeep safari when we watched a bull elephant cross the road and saw a herd of magnificent Indian Bison.

One of the great things about cycling is that you can just make the journey up as you go along. Hot and thirsty we stopped to buy a bottle of water as we passed through a village, in doing so we noticed another shop selling soda and so made it a pop stop in the shade when we noticed a sign advertising a guesthouse 600m down a minor road. I was tired after not sleeping all night and so we thought we would check it out - much buggering about and 5 miles up and down hills later we were escorted by 30 very small and excited school children to the Varnam family's homestay, which was like finding paradise itself.

Their home is on a small estate where they grow bananas, jackfruit, rubber trees, coffee and a list of exotic spices as long as your arm. Elephants and wild animals roam the surrounding forests and the paddyfields of tribal villages. As the heat and humidity of the Indian summer intensifies, hot air rises over the ghats and late every afternoon storms form - sitting on the Varnam's veranda drinking fresh coffee, reading the newspaper and watching the cooling torrential rain was a tranquil delight. Mrs Varnams Keralan home cooking was interesting and delicious, we even had a dish made with banana flowers. We could probably have stayed there forever but eventually and reluctantly got back on our steeds and cycled on in the heat, past hills of bright green tea plantations and down out of the mountains.

Kerala is a communist state and with India holding elections in April every surface was covered in red and white posters of the hammer & sickle or Che Guevara and roads were painted with marxist slogans. Which all seemed slightly incongruous alongside the luminously coloured mansions that lined the palm fringed roads in one of India's wealthiest states. We were passed by buses painted in psychedelic colours and driven by lunatics as we cycled into the coastal city of Kannur where it was 40 degrees and 90% humidity and the food was as spicy hot as the weather.

We went to Chembilode to watch a Theyam ceremony at their village temple amongst the coconut groves. Theyam is an ancient form of religious folkdance where the performers dress in fantastic costumes and make-up. During their ritualised dancing to frenetic drumming the performers take on the form of gods, local people then seek the advice and blessing of these gods. The villagers were wonderfully welcoming to us and we stayed for the whole ceremony which lasted from 7pm until midday the following day. It was an amazing and surreal experience.

We had been trying, unsuccesfully, to find a way out of India for several weeks and had, via email, found a sailing company that would take us from the Andaman Islands to Thailand but the Indian Port Authorities had other ideas. We killed time waiting for the outcome and the heat seemed to melt the days together in a procession of cold showers, laying under the ceiling fan and raging war on the invading ants and mosquitos. The matter was not resolved but it seemed pointless to continue south on the highway in the heat so we took a 14hr overnight train across the Indian peninsular to Chennai on the east coast to see if we could influence things. We travelled 1st Class but only in the warped bureacracy of India is 1st Class actually 3rd Class.

There are thousands of people living rough on the streets of Chennai and thousands more in makeshift slums and the city stinks like an Indian public toilet. We joined the massive crowds lining the sandy seashore for the cooler, fresh air blowing off the Bay of Bengal and we looked hopefully eastwards towards Asia.