We enjoyed our mistaken trip to Kuchaman after all. We found a fort which absolutely won our hearts. It’s not one of the the mighty forts of which Rajasthan has a surfeit, but it was intimate and charming. We were taken into the private areas of the fort, the Maharaja’s and Maharishti’s rooms and marveled at the beauty and intricate work that was built into the very fabric of the building. We came back via the narrow, lively streets of the old town and stayed in the luxury of our surprise five-star.

You know, the thing about five-star hotels: they’re supposed to present a blank western environment. If you’re staying in a five-star in Hong Kong, it’s not markedly different from a five-star in New York, or Amsterdam. You get pretty much the same service, and the same options. Maybe you get a curated taste of local cuisine at the restaurant (the most easily co-opted touristic signifier), but for the rest it’s pretty indistinguishable. (Pretty much like a cruise ship.) Here, however, they’d got it about 90% right. The rooms were fantastic, the service absolutely impeccable, the grounds immaculate. But every so often, we came across something that jarred. There was no bar (not their fault; their license was held up, and it was coming). The food was very local. The bathroom was designed to cater for a typical Indian bucket bath rather than a shower, the water pressure wasn’t great, and we had to get someone out to fix the hot water at one stage. (I guess it is a desert.) But those were all things that made it more endearing in a way. I’m certain they’ll get it right eventually, but perhaps the hotel will be worse for it.

On the second day after we arrived, we packed and saddled up the motorcycles. We were getting used to people waiting around to watch us tie up the various straps involved in tying down luggage to a bike, but in this case there were half a dozen people waiting to wave us off. Eventually, the bags secured, we left our safe, cozy hotel, and went forth into a dusty, unknown world.

It started out pretty much the same as everywhere else. Dusty one-lane highways, occasional spine-compacting speed humps, quick pullovers for petrol without getting off the bike followed by Indian men gathering around to inspect the Himalayans. Despite it’s good press, we hadn’t yet seen another Himalayan. Everyone else seemed to be riding Heroes or scooters. Sometimes someone would be riding an old Royal Enfield Bullet 350 or (very occasionally) a Meteor. So everyone was always interested in the Himalayan, telling me “very good bike” or asking “How much?”. (What’s the Hindi for “Fµ©ked if I know, it’s a rental”).

Bikes

After an hour, we came to a fork in the road. My beeline wanted to take us a little out of the way, but by freeway most of the way. Dalma’s google map showed us cutting across, shaving a few kilometers off the way but going by roads that weren’t. Being adventurous motorcyclists, or quite possibly idiots, we decided to go the unsure way and set off.

The roads grew gradually narrower. They were sometimes tarmac so dust-blown that you were only sure you were on tarmac because it was smooth. Sometimes it was concrete, broken in places, where bulldust had gathered. We rode slowly trying to anticipate problems. The beeline kept trying to take us off a series of dirt roads that looked worse than what we were on, so we kept going. Eventually, while passing by the backs of houses, the road gave up all pretense of being a road and collapsed into a rutted muddy track. One spot was particularly wet. I skidded through it. I stopped, got off the bike, and Sir Galahad-like, offered to ride Dalma’s bike through the mud, and then, Sir Robin-like, neatly skirted it on grass I hadn’t seen before.

With Robin’s minstrels singing in my head (Bravely, bold Sir Robin went forth from Kuchamen…), we set off. After half an hour, we fetched up in a dusty but charming Rajasthani town we later found was named Bidasar. It was colder the more north we went, so we stopped for what had become my guilty pleasure on this trip: sweet hot chai. I went to source this while Dalma stayed with the bikes. The chai-wallah I found was fascinating to watch. He had a big chai pot over a flame he’d bring to the boil, taste, throw in some spices and a handful of sugar, and repeat. Eventually, I acquired two glasses of chai and turned around to see Dalma surrounded by Indian admirers.

Chai and admirers in Bisidar

Dalma is quite tall, and at 183cm, I’m not exactly short either, so we often found ourselves towering over much of the local population. Add to that our blue eyes and the fact that we were cruising through Rajasthan on motorcycles that seemed just as foreign as we were, and we quickly became a bit of a spectacle. It wasn’t unusual for some enthusiastic passerby to shout, “Hello! I like your beard!” (or, perplexingly, butt—I’m still not sure which), which was both flattering and bewildering. More often than not, though, our presence resulted in us being swarmed by groups of people eager for selfies, a request we always found amusing. This time, however, Dalma had drawn quite a crowd of about twenty onlookers while I was off entranced by the artistry of a local chai-wallah. We waved, smiled for photos, and finished our chai.

We soon found ourselves back on the highway—one of those fabled Rajasthani stretches of road that seem to go on forever, straight as an arrow, dusty as a desert tomb, and seemingly empty. For all their remoteness, the roads were surprisingly well-maintained, much to the relief of our increasingly weary posteriors. Every now and then, we’d come upon a toll booth, a reminder of the Indian government’s enthusiastic embrace of toll roads, rivaled only by the zeal of New South Wales’ finest bureaucrats. But unlike back home, motorcycles here were exempt from tolls, so we would smugly slip through the narrow, two-wheeler lanes, dodging the queues with the kind of satisfaction that only comes from getting something for free.

As we neared Bikaner, the traffic thickened in a way that only India can manage, with carts, trucks, buses, and the occasional wandering cow all vying for the same dusty stretch of road. Dalma, unfazed, handled the chaotic roundabouts and weaving traffic with an ease that would have impressed even the most seasoned local. Or rider. The roads, now caked in the fine, powdery dust of the encroaching Thar Desert, seemed to stretch endlessly, but finally, we found ourselves pulling up to our rather grand guesthouse. This little gem was owned by the descendant of the last prime minister to the Maharaja of Bikaner. You could almost feel the echoes of royal intrigue hidden within its humble walls.