A Beauiful Ride, Long Bus trip, and failed brakes as I head to Bhutan.

After the long awaited visa approval from Bhutan arrived, I quickly packed my bags, loaded my cycle and said goodbye to my new friends in Darjeeling. Tim rode with me along an old forest road for half the day as I descended back to the Indian plains. The old road weaved through the Himalayan foothills through a nature reserve boasting waterfalls, lush green pastures and tall Japanese cedars. This made for a beautiful ride and we stopped for lunch in a small town up in the forests where we were likely the only white cyclists to have ever passed through. Hand gestures and pigeon English got us two bowls of noodle soup and our fill of the local peanut butter candies.

After lunch I hit the main road which drops 2000meters of altitude in just a few kilometers. This steep road was washed out in places and almost never paved due to the hard rains of the monsoon season. I road in places where the road was a river almost knee deep with the muddy runoff. The thunder and lightning intensified the storm which was dropping so much rain I could hardly see 20ft down the road at times. True to monsoon in an hour it had cleared up and I was almost down the hill. My cheap indian bike had burned up so much of the brakes that I had to stop and adjust them every 15 minutes. Finally the pads wore through and I was forced to rotate the brakes and use my feet as I nursed by way down the hill and heard the grinding of metal as the worn out pads scrapped the rims. Just a few kilometers from the flats with a pop the brakes gave way entirely. I was hungry and tires and soaked to the bone.

Unfortunately, this section of the highways only had traffic going up the hill and with sunset quickly approaching I had a real dilemma: I could walk to Siliguri but that would take hours or I could try and flag down a truck heading back up the hill and get a taxi down the next day. With determination I decided I would walk towards a cross-roads I was told was just a few kilometers away and try my luck at getting a ride into Siliguri. Right as my spirits were dwindling and I was panicking that traffic would stop going even up the hills I flagged down the only car heading into Siliguri that I'd seen in almost an hour. Much relieved I took the local tuk-tuk the long way into Siliguri, passing though many little towns on the way, each with their cycle repair shop busy with repairs and the local metal worker welding up gates and fencing.

From Siliguri I wrangled two bikes and a giant bag full of presents and bike parts to the bus station and took a very bumpy ride to the Bhutan border. I was sitting in the very back of the bus and on a few of the bumps I litterly caught air with no part of my body touching the seat until I was appruply slammed back into my seat with the rise of the next pothole.

Arriving in bhutan I was quite quickly greeted with the hospitality that makes Bhutan feel like home. The immigration officer walked me to a hotel and negotiated the local rate on my behalf. After his shift I was invited back to his apartment were I ate dinner with him and exchanged stories of our respective homes. Up early again I headed off to get my bus to Thimphu and drugged up for the windy bus ride. Winding up into the hills, past villages perched on green pasture mountain tops and cascading water falls the welcome back to bhutan was beautiful. I arrived yesterday in Thimphu, 3 days of travel, more than a couple airborn bus seat rides, and a full day of cycling and brake mending. I was wiped! Chhimi's inlaws invited me in and I spent the night relearning Dzongka and trying to communicate with them as best I could. Today its running around the city after all the letters and applications required for my work visa, bank account and trying to get an apartment.

Indian Hair cut

I put myself under the knife. That of an Indian barber I should say. Somehow between my gesturing and his pigeon English he indicated for me to sit down. I saw a twinkle of excitement in his eyes when I said "Spiky", the Indian-English word for Mohawk. I was hoping that the new challenge for him would be well excepted.

Walking past a barber in North America you generally hear the buzz of the clipper. Here in India the scissors make a nonstop chattering of metallic clicks, making it sound as if hair should be flying everywhere as the artists crafts masterful sculptures from hair. In reality, hair dressers have a nervous twitch, snipping at the air as they line up their next cut on the comb. Put it together and you get a nonstop clicking as my hairdresser gets into the zone of creating a decent Spiky from my flowing mane of overgrown curls.

Things got interesting as he pushed my head back against a pad, lathered me up and preceded to slide a razor over my jugular. The result? The closest shave i've ever had and a humbling experience of giving trust to a perfect stranger. Just as I was enjoying my new look in the mirror I was being splashed in the face with water, fast as lighting there was a massive stone, crystal being rubbed across my face. Before I knew what had happened a smattering of different aftershaves followed my brush with the stone. Still in shock he asked if I wanted a head massage, politely saying no and giving the Indian head bobble apparently means yes in these parts so while I figured out he had rubbed my face with a giant salt crystal I was being percussed on the head in ways I couldn't quite understand using just two hands. The aggressive bumping, pounding and rubbing came to a finale with him gently turning my head and then aggressively popping my neck.

The chiropractor, scissor chattering, knife wielder had done me in. A group of men had slowly gathered in the smaller roadside shack to watch the spectacle and as I stood up and staggered to my bag I realized he had done a bang up job. I payed the sweet looking man and walked out feeling renewed and in disbelieve of what had just transpired over just a few minutes, A rock, a knife, a realignment: India never ceases to amaze.

All for hot oatmeal.

I arrived in India with no real bike gear beyond a hiking backpack. After 5 days on the road, 158 kms, and about 2000 meters of climbing I'm starting to figure out my shortcomings in gear and what is working so far. I've spent that last couple days working on cooking stuff. The crux is a stove and this post is my exploration of the true and false of building alcohol stoves, because the internet is far less real than trying to build a stove here in India.

I decided on attempting an alcohol stove. The first problem was finding alcohol and appropriate tins or pop cans to make the stove from. I went exploring in the Darjeeling market and found some canned sardines for tins and eventually found rubbing alcohol at my third pharmacy. What i've realized is that while the store owner first looks at your with a blank face and says no, often this is just a temporary answer as he dolls change to a customer. Here patience paid off as I explained my goal.

A tuna tin, alcohol, and swiss army knive in hand I went for it. I did my darndest to burn down my Guesthouse only to fail. Yesterday I tried again and finally found success with a two tin system and some mystery fuel along the lines of mineral spirits. I'm not sure what I'm burning but it works, best not ask too many questions in India. 

I started the holes with my knive, then expanded them with the screwdriver. 2-3 rows with bigger holes on the bottom finally worked.

The Final stove has a smaller tin with 2 rows of holes as the fuel burner, then a larger diameter tin with 3 rows of holes as a chimney and pot stand. The large aluminum cup serves as a pot.

After two days of failures I finally was able to cook a dinner of noodles complimented with some veggies and some amazing unpasturized yack cheese that tastes alot like swiss rachlet. It was late, I was exhausted from failured attempts so my first home cooked meal will live in my memory as the best tasting meal i've cooked in a long time. Today I bought a metal roti container for packed lunches, aka my second pot, and will try a curry and rice, can't wait.

Detailed Information:
Best stove type that worked: Two Cat Can Stove
More Information at: http://zenstoves.net/Stoves.htm
Supplies:

• 5oz Tuna Tin
• Smaller diameter sturdy drink container cut to the ~ size of 3 oz Cat tin size
• Knive
• Blunt intrument for expanding holes
• Fuel (Isopropal rubbing alcohol, mineral spirits)
• Large metal mug for pot (2 cup capacity)

Failures:

• Alcohol was much harder to use mineral spirits, plus the added colouring for medical purposes smelt bad when burnt
• One can, low pressure sideburner. Works only if the can is taller than it is wider but poorly.
• Fancy aluminum can pennie stoves.

Key Lessons:

• Burner needs to be taller than it is wide.
• Mineral Spirits burn better than the rubbing Alcohol available in India.
• Stacked two can system works.
• Placing second larger can over first smaller one instead of stacked ontop makes more of a simmer setting.
• Large holes right above the fuel line are important.
• You must create draft with large low holes low and lots of upper holes in order to boil water.

Standard Introduction...

As my inaugral post I'll do the standard introduction. I graduated university with a degree in Environmental Engineering and decided I'd rather travel than work in an office for the time being. That being said I'm committed to addressing environmental problems and subsequently social problems. Philanthropy aside I've always been a traveller at heart but having lived on a college budget I'm typically getting by on less. So I find myself typically traveling the road less travelled and frequently getting by on creativity, resourcefulness and patience more than anything else. I often look to do things differently and while my adventurous side relishes in this, I often find myself cursing my youthful neive judgement that gets me into interesting situations.

Currently, you find me in the Himalayas where I've often dreamt of bicycle touring. I ended up here finishing up field work in Bhutan. So I went to Siligui India, a dump of a city, spent a week finding a bike, and I've now set off. Ofcourse having no tools, bike gear, and having never cycle toured is adding up to again a foolish youthful adventure. I hope you enjoy my foolhardy travel stories...