A narrow suspension bridge spanning the Ganges hangs below my table. People share the crossing with cows as monkeys patrol the cables looking for opportunities.
Apart from the queue to see the Taj Mahal, I’ve not seen so many westerners in India, so many white faces. Unfortunately, here they’re accompanied by pan piped, meditation muzak that spills out from the restaurant’s speakers to mix with the Gange’s torrent. That said, this banoffee pie and coffee is rather good.
At the end of this morning’s short ride to Rishikesh (yoga capital of the world), I met an Australian chap, a veteran of India, riding a new Enfield. He reckoned the source of the Ganges is a stunning two day ride from here and that although it’s usually cold up there in Winter, this year’s extraordinarily mild. My other contact with the world outside was sending a quest post to a fellow blogger
So that’s what I’ll do: take stock and try a yoga class before following the Ganges as far north as possible without turning into a brass monkey, and let that be the furthest reach of this trip.
The superstitious part of me looks into the river below and contemplates a flow that’s caught me up and brought me this far without a map. It’s hard not to let the surroundings make one feel a bit mystical. Even without the many orange robed Saddhu’s and yoga experiences around every corner, this feels like a powerful place.
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