Bicycles are drawn to small towns and the periphery of the large. Being in the middle of nowhere for days on end is emotionally challenging, and of course the heart of a city (in all the ones I've lived) is just downright hostile. The urban edges are hard places however. The indifference of humans to one another, and the real meaning of privilege, swirl somehow together to ensure that those with least have to spend most getting from where they live, to where they might work. So the urban edges are mostly gritty, dusty, decorated with informal living, and mass transport hubs. They are seldom pretty, but always real. Like people.
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| The grit and grind of the urban edge. |
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| Our stage after the show, at a bus depot, the Indian equivalent of a Transkei Missile rolling in. |
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| I absolutely LOVED this town, an altiplano delight - climbed out of a long valley, snaking up (after a fantastic descent) into this little jewel with its bustle and market. |
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| Somewhere in Gujarat - bright clothes, jewels in the dust. |
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| The urban edges are also like city-gates of old, a kind note, implicit invitations back. |
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| And then those carve-outs for the well heeled too, country clubs, things that need space. The Malpani rooms had seen better days, but the pool was ocean-like. I think mal-pani really translates to bad water - mal from latin, pani from Hindi. |
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