We’re doing a few overnight stays in a row. Despite our best efforts, we can’t seem to ride for more than a couple of hundred kilometres in a day. Today we rode from Murdeshwah with its religious overtones we didn’t understand, to Udupi. I’d been keen to see Udupi as a beachside stay, but looking at it more closely, they didn’t seem to be great. We chose a hotel we thought was close to the city, and we left.

It was to be another whirlwind day of chaos and adaptation, the kind of day we’ve come to expect on our journey through South India. The roads, as usual, were a test of patience and nerves. We’ve learned to be more cautious, especially after the neatly-serious accident during our first visit here. The crossings are unpredictable, and navigating the roads requires constant vigilance.

Mayhem.

Unlike in the north, where honking is a language everyone understands and respects, here the larger vehicles—buses and cars—seem oblivious. They barrel forward, indifferent to smaller vehicles like ours, their honking more a demand than a warning. Dalma had a particularly nerve-wracking moment when a massive yellow bus sped towards her, leaving her no choice but to twist the throttle and get out of its path. The power of our bikes saved us today, but the constant on-edge riding is exhausting.

We rode from Murudeshwar to Udupi—a relatively short journey of about two and a half hours. Upon arrival, we checked into our hotel on the outskirts of town. It boasted two restaurants and an outrageous manager who was equal parts flamboyantly camp and serious Indian.  We had an amazing lunch and set off to  look for an ATM. (Regional India is the land of cash.) What we thought would be a short errand turned into a trek through the maze of Udupi’s streets. We walked nearly four kilometers, following maps that led to ATMs that either didn’t work or didn’t exist. It was frustrating, but eventually, we stumbled into the bustling city center.

The city was alive with color, movement, and noise—a sensory overload that was both exhausting and fascinating. We found ourselves drawn to yet another temple (despite vowing this would be the last), where a group of women sat on a covered stage singing traditional music. The calm of their voices amidst the chaos outside felt grounding.

To spare ourselves more walking, we hailed an auto-rickshaw back to the hotel. For the first time, we experienced an auto with a functioning meter—a rarity here. The fare was a reasonable and startling 60 rupees.

Back at the hotel, fatigue caught up with us. We had planned to stay for two nights, but with no laundry service on Sunday and little else of interest in the area, we decided to move on tomorrow. Dinner was another small challenge; the restaurant wouldn’t serve food until 7 p.m., and there were no other options available. 

We dutifully presented ourselves at 7.15pm and were ushered into the “fine dining restaurant”. This, we discovered meant the same menu and wait staff, but with tablecloths. We requested two gin and tonics. A few minutes later, we were presented with two glasses with a hefty shot of gin in each and two cans of dry ginger ale. We looked at each startled, thinking of what this new abomination could taste like. Unfortunately they had no tonic, so we requested two bottles of Kingfisher instead. They were also out of this (who runs out of Kingfisher in India?) but bought bottles of Tuborg for some reason. It really was the most adorably quirky hotel. I liked it very much. And the food was, as always, fantastic.

Dalma at dinner.

Back in the room, we chatted idly on the relentless unpredictability of this trip. South India, with its chaos and contradictions, feels like a tidal wave—resist it, and you’ll be knocked over; flow with it, and you might just make it to the other side (to quote Best Exotic Marigold Hotel). Today was a lesson in surrendering to the madness and finding beauty in small moments of calm amidst the storm. We didn’t set out to swim through the chaos, but here we are, learning to ride its waves.