The slush and blur of the monsoon in Goa fogged our windows. The roads were washed clean
“Even a 4X4 can’t go there now,” they said with a derisive glance. OK, we’ll hire bikes then. “No hire, we’ll take you.” We’ll manage. They laughed. “How many of you?” Four. “Then you need four bikes!” No, we’ll ride two to a bike. “You’ll ride?” They laughed louder. What’s so funny? “Too much riks,” they chorused like tired parents chiding errant children. As wily city-slickers we tried to bargain, but they weren’t interested in the negotiations. “Four people means four bikes; we ride, you sit behind. Rs 300 per head. Take it or leave it.” For someone who’s done Ladakh, Himachal and Kerala on a bike, this was a humiliating deal.
We crawled into a tiny stall to foment our battered egos with a breakfast of hot puris and tasty usal before hopping on to their bikes. Still sore at being bullied into submission, their final order stung like a slap, “Hold tight and never put your feet on the ground.” Clinging to the shoulders of a band of renegades in slippers, football shorts and Che Guevara T-shirts, we set off with nothing but a pack of biscuits, chips and a bottle of cheap port wine. No helmets, no boots, no waterproof jackets.
We revved up the mountainside and swerved towards a railway track. The convoy rode parallel to the tracks down an imaginary path on a bed of jelly stones. It was a veritable obstacle course of metal rail tracks, ballast, rods and thick iron hinges. Electric poles flashed past our faces like signposts from our lives. A train hurtled towards us; we clung on, knees tucked in. The train was a metre away, but we felt like we were moving from the stream of consciousness to the slipstream of unconsciousness. As if on cue, signalling the end of Round 1, we were deposited on a slushy jungle track.
“This is the main jeep access but, in the rains, it gets closed as two large streams run across it. We take the bypass,” we were informed. “These few months are exclusively our domain before the *%$# jeeps take over by November,” they beamed. We smiled politely. “Let’s move, the tough part lies ahead,” they said. Our smiles vaporised. We did try to protect our jeans from the splattering slush but, by the time we got to the first river-crossing, we were soaked and mud-stained.
It was surreal. We were midstream, astride 100cc bikes, with water ahead and water behind. “Don’t put your feet down,” the rider Bindesh reminded me as he battled the force of the current and negotiated the wheels over slippery rock. The rear wheel skidded off a boulder and the water-clogged exhaust gurgled excruciatingly. It was man versus machine versus nature. But the bike surged ahead and reared out of the river. The others weren’t as lucky. They had to hop off and wade through swirling waters. Eventually, we got to the other side, safe but not quite dry.
Our relief was short-lived as nineteen-year-old Bindesh announced, “This is just the first one.” We asked him how long he’d been riding. “I learnt to ride when I was twelve. Two years ago, I wasn’t ready for this track. My hands would shiver and I’d lag behind. Now I can close my eyes and ride — I know every curve, bump and pothole on this route.” You ought to be in the rally. “I am. My speciality is wheelies.” Really? How long can you stay on one wheel? “How long do you want me to? Should I do a wheelie now?”But his showmanship was stalled by the second stream.
We paddled across in swift, knee-deep water, while the riders pushed their bikes, engines running. The terrain got steadily tougher as if we were onto the next level of Road Rash. The bikers navigated steep muddy inclines, swooping trails of loose rock and water-laden tunnels with Playstation panache. The next crossing was more turbulent. They struggled with the bikes like they were holding onto a bull in an enormous washing machine.
A clearing in the path allowed us a glimpse of why we were undertaking this penance. In the distance, we saw the Dudhsagar Falls, India’s fifth highest waterfall, pouring down in milky torrents. Soon, we reached the parking lot from where our trek began — a tricky descent over slimy rocks. We formed human chains and helped each other across boulder-ridden streams until we had an uninterrupted view of Dudhsagar. The waterfall — created by the Khandepar river, a tributary of the Mandovi — plummets 310m off a lofty ridge bisected by a railway track and a bridge. It is a tiered display of terrifying, and truly humbling, beauty.
The river gushed incessantly beneath, lulling us into sloth. The sun lit up moss-laden tree trunks, while dragonflies flitted like fairies over our dangling feet. We lounged like sea lions on boulders shaded by trees, sipping wine and gazing at the spectacle above. The wine must have been potent. For soon, we were hallucinating about the naked princess of these Ghats who is believed to have created the cascade by emptying a milk-pot upon herself to cover her modesty from a wandering prince. “Time to go,” someone announced.
Our return was trickier and the river crossings more perilous because of a sudden downpour. Two boys slipped and were dunked into the swollen stream, saved just in time from being swept away. Like true comrades, the bikers look out for each other. “We move in groups. If one runs into trouble, another can help or inform others. The forest area is desolate with only one house en route. It belongs to the priest who looks after the small forest shrine.”
We encounter a bunch of youngsters trekking. Desperately apologetic, they plead with our riders: “Sorry, we made a mistake. Please can you send some bikes? There are eleven of us.” Our boys give them a sour reminder “Hum jab bolte hain na, experience se bolte hain. But you people don’t believe us.”
We hum past the same unnamed landmarks with a brief sense of déjà vu and realise how finely honed the bikers’ skills are—perfected through practice, doing the route every day, even thrice a day on busy weekends. Back at the starting point, we tip them generously. They smile. “So, still think you can do it on your own?” We grudgingly shake our heads.
The information
Getting there
By Road Dudhsagar is located on the southeast corner of Goa, near its border with Karnataka. It is accessible from two points on NH-4A on the Goa–Belgaum highway: Kulem (6km off Mollem, which is 57km from Panaji) on the Goa side and Castle Rock near Anmod, just past the border with Karnataka. From Kulem, it is either a 12km trek along the rail tracks or a dirt track across two streams. Bikes and four-wheel-drive jeeps charge Rs 300 per head for a trip to the falls and back.
By Rail Book your tickets from Vasco Da Gama or Madgaon to Kulem or Castle Rock. Dudhsagar lies between the Kulem and Castle Rock stations. Even though there is no scheduled stop there, all trains slow down. The best option is Vasco Howrah Express (Rs 279), as it leaves at 7.10am and reaches Kulem at 8.20am and Castle Rock at 9.20am, leaving you with the whole day to spend at the waterfall. But this train does not run on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. The two dailies, Vasco-Bangalore Link Express and Vasco Nizamuddin Goa Express, reach Kulem only at 4.30pm. If you’re travelling only by train, you’ll have to spend the night here because trains back to Vasco and Madgaon leave only early morning the next day.
When to go
As with most waterfalls, Dudhsagar is at its best during and after the monsoon. July-September is when local bikes ply the route and then the jeep track opens for the tourist season (from November).
Where to stay
The Dudhsagar Resort (Rs 3,250 for a room, Rs 5,000 for a tent; 0832-2612238, 2612319) near Mollem checkpost is the only resort in the area. It also organises regular trips to Dudhsagar.
Goa
jeep rides
Khandepar river
