by Jeffrey Vonk
* * *
When I started the journey I had literally nothing planned beyond Tibet. So to be two days away from India is rather exciting. Gradually the skin tone of locals becomes darker. While moving west it is necessary to zigzag my way through the madness, avoiding cows, goats and chickens, huge potholes, and an occasional peacock. Wherever I have a small break to eat or pee I am exposed to villagers gathering around like a swarm of bees. If I could only describe what it’s like to have zero privacy. It is especially inconvenient when stopping for number two for example. Nine out of ten times, it is impossible with all those eyes clinging to every move I make. A mere moment for myself is not allowed. Think about that for a second. They are so curious that I can’t even take a shit. With reasonable pavement, I keep following my roadmap. Always accompanied by a close hot sun in the vast vaulted dome. What can go wrong?
Tell me this is not really happening. On a quiet country road, surrounded by banana trees, I am caught by my biggest fear. A flat rear tire! There I stand all alone in a remote area in a foreign country of which I do not speak the language. On top of that, I am not equipped to fix it myself because for some silly reason Steve and I split the tools on his departure. Black oxen in the surrounding muddy farmlands couldn't care less about my situation. Nobody among the sporadic passing traffic speaks English. However, by listening very carefully and paying close attention to hands, their non-verbal signs almost being a language of its own, I find out a mechanic is only six kilometers away. Unfortunately, in the direction I just came from. Trying to drive as slowly as possible fails instantly when the tube comes out and remains next to the rim, thus, leaving but one option left. A few years back during mountain biking through Belgium there was a heat wave, and I also got a flat rear tire. However, pushing that bicycle was a trillion times easier than now pushing my fully packed motorcycle under these conditions. Upon arrival at the open-air garage, my head is as red as a lobster, as well as my shoulders, with my clothes totally drenched in sweat. Meanwhile searching through my backpack for a fresh outfit there was a hollow consolation, as before I know it, the motorcycle is fixed.
With the minor incident putting me behind schedule I keep on driving until dusk. Not that I have an actual schedule, it is just that I felt like making some kilometers today. At one point, I notice a cozy spot to set up camp. A small open grass field right next to an entryway to the jungle seems fit. Having pulled over I throw up my beloved The North Face tent in an instant, securing myself for a successful overnight stay. Connecting bushes finally provide some privacy, without nosy eyes I return my disgusting never seen before lunch from this afternoon back to nature. Of course, it only takes a second for someone to show up. Right after the steamy pile of curry is literally and figuratively behind me, a young man approaches, and asks: “Are you sure you want to spend the night here?” I cannot think of a reason not to. Inquiring what the deal is it was better left unsaid. “This area is not uncommon for bears and tigers!” he replies, while excitedly nodding his head. Are you kidding me? To his credit, he does invite me to stay with his family, but I am too tired right now to pack my gear. After I give him some clothes as a gift, superfluous on account of the new temperatures, he is on his way again.
As you can imagine it is a little hard to catch any sleep. With a knife in hand, I turn to stone by the smallest sound of a cracking twig. It is a relief that I am at least alive at daybreak. Perhaps thanks to the huge dump I took yesterday the wildest animals are possibly kept at a safe distance. But if you think I am alone, think again. Around five in the morning, the first workers of the field stroll by and pause to observe, tight-lipped. Soon the whole nearby village comes out to watch me. Leaning on their spuds, they watch me in utter silence while I am cooking noodles for breakfast, packing up the tent and loading everything onto the motorcycle. I can’t help but wonder what is going on in those silent minds of them. Having started the engine my mirrors show they begin to walk as I drive away. I fantasize that years from now, while walking to work they will poke each other saying: “Hey, do you remember the one time that this white lunatic pitched his tent here?”
* * *
Once I passed the medium-sized city of Mahendranagar things go fast. According to calculations, the border must soon follow. While moving along it’s kind of hard not to notice that it becomes densely populated. I mean immensely densely populated. My goodness where do they all come from? Toward the west there are threatening watchtowers and heavily armed camouflaged foxholes on both sides of the road. Filled with roadblocks, barbed wire fences, army vehicles and trained soldiers, the scenery has all the characteristics of a war zone. Not to mention civilians with self-improvised carts dragging their bags and suitcases through the dirt, as well as animals, little children, and unimaginable junk that would be too much for a platoon of beachcombers. Military staff guide me to a creaky office where fat sweaty uniformed men ask questions and check my passport. Lucky for me there is zero exchange in information between border patrol and their other locations. They have no idea that I was only allowed to stay for two weeks! And just like that I have officially exited the country. Leaving behind a season of electrifying ampleness and with it undoubtedly a part of myself.
No less than six weeks of life-changing events in India follow of which you can read in the next chapter. After this, let’s say, most challenging time, where dreams were crushed and my spirit tested, I make an unplanned visit to Kathmandu for a few weeks.
Arriving in the black of night I use public transport and my inner compass to find the hotel I was staying at before. Once located I catch the gate locked and all the lights are dimmed. With some effort I manage to lift my heavy backpack over the pointy gate, more like with a swing, then I go over it myself. The only thing breaking the silence now and then are barking stray dogs a few blocks away. Left to the courtly chestnut front door a barred window is slightly ajar. When I notice the silhouette of the bellboy sleeping on the floor I call out for him, so he can open the door to let me in. “Ram Kumar, Ram Kumar, it’s me!” I strongly whisper. He wakes up to stare at me for a second and jumps out of bed. However, instead of going towards the door he stays in the corner of the room, not moving a muscle. I continue: “Hey man it’s me, open the door!” When he becomes a living statue for ten minutes, I have literally no idea what is going on, then at one point he finally runs out of the room screaming, still not letting me in. Moments later stumbling sounds from the second-floor increase. I see lights turning on in several rooms now. Right upon seeing me, the owner of the hotel familiar with my face, quickly opens up, preventing me from having to spend a cold night out on the shady streets.
His loud uncontrollable laughter wakes up his staff members. Within minutes they gather about and everyone starts laughing riotously. Well what do you know? Turns out in the meantime, they had replaced the bellboy, the new one being terrified as hell from my sudden appearance! What a joke! He reckoned this white giant was there to take his life. The staff grab my luggage and carry it upstairs, checking in is unnecessary. Meanwhile the kid is still scared shitless and stands frozen behind the reception desk. Although I feel sorry for him we keep on cracking up. Quite the scene I cause within my first hour of being back in wondrous Nepal!
During the course of the succeeding weeks, I meet up with the all-American girl I met earlier on in church, with quite the postscript later on in life. Furthermore, many true wonders and fascinating miracles happen. In fact, they are so extraordinary that this book would fit into another category with an entirely different character had I written them here. Hence, I have decided those stories are for another place and for another time. Namaste!
6
India
It is hard to separate the smells from the surplus of different dishes rising from roadside stalls, not to mention the penetrating odors of rotting muck. It’s equally hard to believe your own eyes, concerning this untellable number of people roaming the area, which is in no way inferior to a very ill organized refugee
camp. When I think about it, it might actually be one, and I’m in the middle of it. Thousands upon thousands creep about, like a human ant farm. You have to see it to believe it. Flies everywhere, skinny chickens running around and half-hairless dogs covered in sores look more dead than alive.
These are the very first impressions of the next country I am now acquainted with. Unfortunately, it pretty much lasts the whole duration of my stay. At the foot of this extremely inadequate piece of real-estate stands the immigration office, consisting of nothing more than sticks and large rags. Three bug-eyed civil servants with big bellies watch me approach in contempt. They do not speak a word of English and my Hindi is not what it used to be, but it is clear they are less than happy with my missing license plates on my motorcycle. After some verbal tug-of-war, I’m granted access into the bizarre lands of India.
The goal is to cross the concrete bridge over the wide part of the Mahakali river, the actual border, but how in the world can I? It is riddled with junk and animals, and I like to address once more without overstating the situation that the number of people is simply incomprehensible. Me being the only one with a motorized vehicle I have to find a way through the ocean of pedestrians, crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Due to sand, dust, and utter filth my scarf becomes hard to breathe through in no time. Effortlessly, everything gets sticky too. I am constantly paying close attention to make sure nobody steals anything from my luggage, the encompassing crowd however prevents even the slightest prospect of visibility. In no sooner than an hour I can finally shift to second gear and actually start driving, albeit slowly, but if you reckon me impervious from the next challenge you’re mistaken.
For instance, traffic in Paris is quite bad, the traffic in South America is already worse, and traffic in an unorganized country like Egypt is definitely chaotic. However, the traffic here is downright suicidal. It is insanity at its best. Cars, trucks, scooters, from left to right and vice versa are so incredibly dangerous. No wonder this country has the most fatal traffic accidents every single year. It’s like playing an incarnated video game of Carmagaddon. Cows, monkeys, massive potholes and people by the hundreds, if not thousands, are crossing the road without batting an eye. Even women with little children do not check incoming traffic; they just cross provincial roads and highways without first looking left or right, un-fucking-believable. I kid you not, even on the parts where I approach with 50mph, I have to kick locals aside, in doing so I almost fall myself. I repeatedly shout: “Get out of the way!” Moreover, I wave and pull the breaks in order to prevent impact. As if I do not exist, they keep ignoring me as well as other road users. Is this even real? Where am I? Then ladies and gentlemen, I present you the icing on the cake, there’s the honking. Oh dear Lord the orchestra of eternal never ending honking, a multi-melodic blitzkrieg if you will. High pitch, low pitch, every pitch, the disorderly intonations aggressively resonate from every angle.
You know I never believed in evolution. I also reject even the slightest form of supremacy over another, and I certainly don’t give a rat’s ass about what race you descend from. But I swear on my two testicles that these creatures, at least the ones at this very location, are a different type of species. Because nobody can be that unintelligent, or in any case, so alarmingly irresponsible. It’s almost like their brain capacity just doesn’t match up. It leaves me without words and in a serious state of contemplation.
* * *
In a place where so many things can go wrong it was never a matter of if anything will happen, but when. And that moment is here. Driving on the left lane, as is custom in this country due to British colonization, I notice two impending lorries clearly driving too fast. For reasons unknown to a logical mind, the rear one decides to pass. The front one however, plagued with childish behavior, is not amused with this action and starts speeding up. Driving side by side they have both lanes fully covered and now race towards me! I am no fortuneteller, but I know how this is going to end, and there is nothing I can do about it. Next to the pavement is a steep drop adjacent to a slope several yards deep. In my ignited anger I continuously honk, signal my lights, and wave my arm in order to somehow convince them to slow down and move over, as any responsible person would do. With the last tidbit of hope, I move all the way to the utmost left and drive as slowly as I can. Naively I squeeze out a mild assumption they will still come to their senses. However, they are – and excuse my choice of words but there is no other way of putting it – really that stupid. The passing lorry slams into the widest part of my motorcycle causing me to be thrown off the pavement right down the slope. I’ve been hit! While I’m still under my bike in the dirt at the bottom of the gully having tumbled down, I notice the truck actually slows down to stop. “So you do have a break?” I say aloud in a rhetorical manner. Seeing the driver stop gives me enough strength to crawl from underneath the iron, for I am furious. Stumbling up the slope, I take my helmet off while the driver carefully observes the situation from a safe distance, having stepped out from his vehicle. With blood-red eyes and an outstretched arm, I yell: “You! Stay there!” I run as fast as a bull towards a red cape, determined to smash his skull in with my helmet. The man sees how enraged I am and quickly climbs back into the cabin. When I’m almost there I reach for the door, but he is in his seat by now and puts the pedal to the metal and beats me to the punch. “Come back you coward!” I yell from the top of my lungs. Yet he vanishes, leaving behind a trail of dust and black exhaust fumes.
I can honestly say that if that moron had not gotten away in time, I would have kept beating him until the life would have drained out from his eye sockets. In hindsight, and even up until today, I thank God for letting him get away. Because in all my life this is the closest I got to actually killing another human being, and I know I would have done it at that particular moment. It would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak, for all those months of frustration prior to this.
Boiling from adrenaline, I keep on driving until it almost gets dark. At a truckers pitch alongside the road are some beds. They are only about five and a half feet, making my own feet stick out. Oh well, at least they are free of charge for a change. Due to the sleepless night from the night before and a long exhausting day on the bike, I fall sound asleep, almost until the next morning. That is quite remarkable because transport and freight traffic continues all night, at a distance of a mere decameter. Yes, including the honking.
* * *
Frequent showers are handing out small escapes from the terrible dust but the overall pollution stays the same. Gas stations are scarce, forcing me to anticipate the route. Random villages hold the best opportunities to fill up the bike after having asked around. Often they keep the gasoline in improvised containers such as slurry tanks. Sporadically I am entertained by groups of gathered locals. I reckon they must be sikhs, wearing turbans on their heads in various colors, yet all of them soothing. Slowly but steadily, country roads are changing into multiple lane highways. Tires keep rolling continuously until huge signs appear above the road that makes me sigh: New Delhi! Being so near I sense a type of new energy flowing into me. Massive colonial palaces and genius structures with historical value such as the Red Fort adorn the surroundings. Alternatively, how about the holiest place of the entire subcontinent, the Lotus Temple? A thirty-five-meter-high complex in the shape of a flower. This so-called house of worship holds a capacity to house two and a half thousand people. Surely, one of the reasons why it is so famous is the fact that it is open to all religions. Well almost all because you are not allowed entry with your shoes still on. And it just so happens that fundamental Christianity, with exception of the traditional Roman Catholic branch perhaps, doesn’t allow one to take your shoes off to a different god other than YHWH. Before drifting off I must admit, it remains a remarkable piece of engineering without question.
Road signs pointing towards the city center eventually lead to the famous roundabout with indisputable British architecture, the indispensab
le historic India Gate. One of the biggest and well-known war monuments. After circling the place, I park my two-wheeled transportation next to a patch of intense green grass. Curious kids surround me while a friendly police officer snaps pictures with my camera. While chilling on the curve in glorious sunshine the realization kicks in that I have travelled here all the way over land like the traders from the distant past. Following in the footsteps of the old explorers even. Meanwhile wealthy tourists, dressed in those typical snobby khaki outfits, airy, lightweight and overpriced, pass by in slow-motion. Resentfully looking at my worn out clothes covered in stains. My ungroomed hair that by now almost reaches my shoulders seems to boggle them even more. I throw them a big provocative smile.
Still, a shower for a change would be nice. Judging from the dirt in my pores the idea is not redundant either. Aimlessly driving around in search for an affordable place to stay I spot a business card on the ground, from the YWCA. When the address on the card turns out to be true, the lady at the reception desk, wearing long black braids, is not fond of my vagabond look. Moreover, in a building loaded with young girls she knows I am like a fox in a hen house. Hunting season has started!
