Today, we did something miraculous—we left on time. 8am saw us packing gear and tightening straps in the dusty morning air. Two nights in Kollam, as much as we liked the town, was our alloted amount. We were heading west toward Alleppey for the next leg of our journey. Well, near Alleppey, actually. Our stay wasn’t in the bustling town itself but tucked away in the quieter backwaters.

The morning ride began on none other than the infamous National Highway 66. Ah, NH66—our old friend. Or foe. By now, we’ve come to expect its erratic rhythm: small stretches of decent road interrupted by construction chaos, and the ever-present dust. Today seemed worse. The few short stretches of fresh tarmac were fleeting, vanishing just as quickly as they appeared. Progress seems slower here than up north and the roads rougher.

As we rattled along NH66, Dalma remarked that once this massive highway is finally complete, it will be a smooth, fast freeway—perfect for blasting through Kerala without a second thought. But that’s the problem. You’ll blast through everything. No more weaving through small villages, no more glimpses of daily life, no more roadside stalls selling coconuts or chai.

Progress is a double-edged sword. Yes, NH66 will eventually offer quick, hassle-free travel. But it will also bypass the very heart of Kerala—the culture, the people, the living, breathing world that exists beyond the tarmac.

Our hope is that when NH66 is finished, it will siphon away the chaotic, heavy traffic, leaving the smaller local roads quieter, safer, and more enjoyable for travelers like us. Riders seeking more than speed. Riders seeking experience.

Because that’s why we’re here. To experience the world, not just pass through it.

Now, back to today’s ride.

Somewhere along the rough patches of NH66, I went to tap the horn—a necessary lifeline in Indian traffic—and… nothing. Silence. In this part of the world, a broken horn isn’t just an inconvenience. It’s like trying to survive in New York City without a middle finger. No way to communicate. The horn is the language of the road here.

So I pulled over to investigate. One of the wires into the horn had come loose, and with the engine hot enough to fry an egg, fixing it on the spot wasn’t an option. I’d have to sort it out later—hopefully with the help of a Royal Enfield dealer or a roadside mechanic.

For now, I had to improvise.

My solution? Rev bombing.

Every time I approached traffic or needed to make my presence known, I’d snap the throttle, letting the engine growl. It startled people—this wasn’t the usual polite honk—but it worked. Heads turned. People noticed. And, more importantly, they moved.

Eventually, and to our surprise, Google maps guided us off the highway … and Kerala transformed. We rode down the tiniest of roads—narrow lanes, sometimes barely wide enough for a bike, cutting through endless rice fields. Bridges barely wide enough for one vehicle spanned quiet canals. Towering coconut palms lined the way, their shadows flickering across the road.

Dalma and bikes and rice fields.

The surface wasn’t perfect, but it was peaceful.

Without the horn, I crept along carefully, easing through blind corners and crawling over unmarked speed bumps the size of small hills. But the slower pace meant I didn’t leave Dalma behind for once. We meandered together through this rural maze, soaking in the quiet beauty of Kerala’s backroads.

This—this—was the kind of riding we live for.

Finally, after countless turns and dodging the occasional stray dog, we reached the riverbank. We were going to stay on a Keralan houseboat overnight.

Kerala’s houseboats are slow-moving escapes, drifting through a maze of backwaters where life hums quietly along the shore. Once used to carry rice, these wooden kettuvallams now carry travelers past swaying palms, fishing nets, and villages that seem untouched by time. Onboard, it’s all about slowing down—watching kingfishers dive, feeling the breeze off the water, and letting the steady rhythm of the boat wash away the noise of the world—and of the NH66. It’s simple, peaceful, and exactly what we needed.

It felt like the perfect pause in this trip. It is a reminder of why we ride. For moments like this. For contrasts like this.

Time to stop.

We’ll stay on the boat for a night and write about it later.

And as for the horn? That’s tomorrow’s problem.