by Jeffrey Vonk
Returning to my bike the man is still chilling beneath the parasol in his tank top, sipping his third glass bottle of Mirinda soda as if his gums are immune to the sugar overdose. He assures me that his offer still counts. As he mounts his somewhat emasculated moped, I tail him to his house, where I fall from one surprise into the other. Having my bike and his vehicle stored behind an iron fence, he reveals his house. By far the biggest and most luxurious of the entire remote area. This intriguing figure takes me on a sightseeing walk around the village. Alternatively, should I say his village since he owns several shops to begin with. It must be comical for others to see, him as the Don and me as his foreign trophy. Talking has reduced to mere whispers. I would say at least half of all the townspeople are either staring from their stands or following us through the dusty unpaved streets. You know it wouldn’t surprise me if I were the first white guy in the whole wide region, ever since the British left sixty years ago.
At night we eat rice and chicken from big platters with his family members. That is to say the male members only. I do get to see the women and girls for a brief moment, his daughters and nieces, before they are safely tucked away again. Close to midnight, things get weird as the men end up in a heated debate because of me. Since they had asked me about my future plans and I candidly mentioned I might be going to visit Israel soon. Without taking time to breathe, they start expressing their hatred towards the Middle Eastern democracy, it seems like it struck a sensitive cord with them. They even demand me to skip it and go straight back to the Netherlands where then I can invite all of them to come over. What kind of intentions could they possibly have? Understandingly I begin to wonder if this isn’t some radical Islamic bulwark. I hope that my head will remain on my torso until the next day. I really like it there you know. My head, attached to my torso.
For reasons I think you can understand I am not too sorrowful when our ways part in the morning. I know it is probably just me finding their behavior just a wee bit too suspicious, let alone them owning the only extravagant house around.
So where off to now you might wonder? Well, something about being resourceful. Believe it or not but I’m actually on my way back to the border again, pushing my luck. In my defense, I heard that stubbornness runs in my family. Maybe today there is a different set of staff from the day before? In my mind it’s worth giving a shot. Boldly standing at one of the windows again inside the immigration office it is hard to control my nerves. If they catch me now I’m facing possible time where I can’t bend over to pick up the bar of soap, so to speak. Judging from the feeling of my face, that does not feel red or insecure; I am doing a good job. Indeed, I recognize no one from the previous day. If all goes according to plan this is going to succeed and will be the most epic thing I have ever done! For a moment, Customs are puzzled when they see the handwritten text in my legal document, making me sweat for a moment from the inlets on my forehead, though everything points toward getting a new stamp after all. Then without any warning it becomes evident that I was rejoicing prematurely. How is it possible? The exact same high-ranking officer that threatened me yesterday comes running toward me with a fresh group of camouflaged soldiers right behind him! Already pointing me out he is shouting something that is probably some kind of order to detain me. In the twinkling of an eye, I snatch my passport back, jump over the barrier and run out from the building. Like a maniac, I spurt away almost feeling their panting on my neck. There is no time to even put on my helmet. With my heart pounding in my chest and admittedly a wet butt crack, I escape from a situation that could have ended much differently. They never caught me and until this day I never know why I was treated the way I was by those acrimonious bobbleheads.
Not to take anything away from its splendor but I feel no desire to visit the Taj Mahal. Rightfully belonging to the newly chosen Seven Wonders of the World, it is too touristy for my taste. I am more attracted to the unexplored. What I am searching for is a way to enter Pakistan illegally. Many hours are spent diligently seeking a hole in the fence big enough for my bike and I. After biting the dust I find nothing except a disappointing conclusion; for now, I have to let this one go.
Driving south I stumble upon a massive pile of dead cows, it could easily be hundreds. This produces a grotesque stench that winds carry all throughout the desert. If they are the remains of BSE (mad cow disease) or some weird religious slaughter festival I do not know. There is actually more of these piles scattered about. It’s a challenge to not vomit your guts out right away. More nasty smells are met with the finding of a dead camel not too far from the road. Still intact, it cannot be there longer than two days tops. A pack of wild dogs won’t let me near it though, they’re just sinking their teeth in the carcass. Luckily, the rest of the camels I come across are alive and kicking, and I spot them by the hundreds.
In the maze of the city Ganganagar I get lost instantly. While having a small break at a mechanic to pump air into my tires, I am shown the right directions. According to my roadmap, I now stand at the base of the eight-hundred-kilometer long Rajasthan Desert. A limited bundle of simple food is in my backpack, together with a few bottles of water tied on the back, the only ration I possess. No navigation, no GPS, just a compass and a will to survive. Supposedly a barren wasteland with danger of wild animals and robbers. With my yearning to explore I guess I have been in tougher scrapes before. There I go, against all dissuasions, by myself into the unknown nothingness. Irresponsible as it may seem to some – this is living. Besides, where else do I need to go? The sensation of liberty is unsurpassed. Backpacking the world in extreme ways. Eating new things, learning first hand from other cultures, enjoying not having to work while at the same time growing as a human being. What a wonderful careless life this combination is. You see, this is something to look back on when you’re old, not having to regret so much time wasted on useless things.
When traversing the sands I sometimes sleep in crumbling little buildings, long abandoned. One of these nightly shelters is right next to a single train track, in fact one of the few, cutting straight through the despondency. In the black of night when I am sound asleep a monster of a train comes roaring by, totally unexpected, instantly waking me up. Assuming the rail track was not used anymore it almost makes me shit my own pants! At a distance of only three feet away, the ground trembles severely. Fully convinced I am going to die I do not recall ever being so frightened.
Apart from sand flies other nights are far more relaxed. Lying next to cactuses with my sleeping bag zipped open I watch the lighting in the clouds, dozens of miles away across the endless plain. Whereas other deserts can be as dry as a very elderly prostitute, in this one it’s not uncommon to be surprised by flash floods. If I don’t want to drown in a horrific way, I better pay close attention where I set up camp. During the day I’m easily satisfied with one hundred twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. For some reason I can handle it very well. Seldom a lorry comes passing by or from the opposite direction, mostly the road is mine. Saturating my eyes with the simplistic beauties of nature, lo and behold on the right side something appears that the mind can hardly comprehend. It is a massive storage facility of all kinds of army vehicles. Tanks, trucks, rocket launchers, everything is there. Impressive for sure, perhaps more concerning than impressive is when I witness this continuing until forever. I mean I count at least a distressing twenty kilometers of unending brand-new war equipment! In addition, an incredible amount of old laid off Soviet junk. Someone is secretly preparing for global decimation, if you let me use that expression. The things you discover while traveling the world eh?
For the first time crossing its borders India knows how to touch me. Its specialty being a beacon of light in the darkness, the blue painted city of mystical Jodhpur. In these dry ongoing flat lands, marked by perspective, it is noticeable from a distance. All the walls of the houses are brushed with an intense blue. Nowadays it is well maintained to keep tourism flowing. In its remoteness it is one of the few means to generate an
income, but centuries ago it showed which tribe you belonged to. There is plenty of maize and rice in this old mercantile city, being on the route of the ancient Silk Route. My much-needed supper exists out of just that, filling up my mostly empty stomach. Not that I am not hungry, I just don’t allow myself to eat properly. And to be honest it’s kinda hard to find something that tastes good, something I did not expect from the country famous for its spices. There are plenty of stands around, but it’s not as if I can prepare seeds and things when not having my own kitchen. Strolling towards the old parts, I pass the Umaid Bhavan Palace, erected with marble and sandstone. Locals wearing colorful turbans play annoying melodies on their flutes. Hoping for a tip big enough to feed their families. Avoiding the noise from making ears shrink like a salted snail I aim for higher ground. You cannot miss it, the colossal time-honored Mehrangarh Fort, founded on correlative colored underlying rocks. Proud and monumental with forty-meter high walls, huge arching gates, extended towers, many canons and other anti-siege weapons. The skillful designs are awe inspiring, along with the sunset from the summit over the barren desert, as far as the eye can see. Also, here’s the nerdy fun fact of today, it’s also the place of this amazing scene where Batman crawls out from that well, escaping by climbing up from the underground tunnel, having been put there by super villain Bane.
Not too far south of this is yet another point of interest. Of course, it’s also on the UNESCO World Heritage List, beating you to the punch, because not many people have heard about the Great Wall of India. Yes, you heard it right! Stretching over a length of eighty kilometers this massive well-preserved complex elegantly serpentines through the dry hills. In protection of the adjacent Kumbhalgarh Fort with its dainty yet complicated architecture. Partially constructed with semi bulges sticking out with arched battlements on top. These contain a narrow slit for shooting arrows while at the same time keeping the bowmen safe. It is just wonderful and all pleasing to the eye. This might very well be one of the most hidden man-made structures in the world. I mean for one I had no idea it existed. Therefore, even now in high season when it should be crawling with tourists there are zero westerners to be found, and hardly any folks at all.
Weather nowadays mostly consists of scorching heat alternated with heavy showers. Gradually the heat makes way for humidity. Approaching a sub-tropical climate not much time passes until green trees are back in the game, soon overflowing everything with vegetation and lushness. Long days on the road are the cause of aching joints and bones, especially my knees and bottom. Driving so much on an uncomfortable dirt bike with little food cannot be healthy. Yet I press on. Increasing traffic herald more frequently appearing cities, usually big chaotic ones with horrible roads. Getting nearer to where I am heading the Golf of Khambat is already to my right, which is the west, coming from the north. Faster than anticipated and of course pretty exhausted I arrive late in the afternoon in the financial capital. Surrounded by water this is the unimaginable thicket of Mumbai.
Deep fried food, extremely spicy food, disgusting food, everything is here except a decent meal. Most of the time I have seriously no idea what I am eating. Perhaps there are other things to be concerned about, more important things such as the bombings at the train station where several carriages are blown up, killing over two hundred and injuring around seven hundred! Luckily, I still only travel with my own vehicle, otherwise this trip could have ended very ugly, and this book would not have made it beyond this chapter. Thank God, I am spared of such misfortune. With millions of inhabitants this rising metropolis is too big to effect other parts of it.
Formerly known as Bombay the city is clearly working hard on her reputation. The progressive youth disconnects with older generations, wearing brand clothes and driving fancy motorcycles. Outward appearance is key in this ever-booming economy. Differences in rich and poor is an increasing gap, which is visibly getting worse. This may surprise you but at night even the common areas downtown are worsening every year. Life in the slums is devastating beyond repair, indigestible as it may sound, however the edges of the agglomeration are the worst. Prices of simple hotels are insanely expensive while hundreds of homeless people, more like thousands, are filling up the sidewalks. Laying underneath unfurled cardboard boxes on the heavily polluted tiles. Rats nibbling small pieces of caked waste from bare feet. Now that’s an image that will stick in my head for a lifetime. I experience more disbelief when I literally have to step over a surplus of displaced people; there is no end to this madness. My heart breaks by the sight of it and there is nothing I can do. Unfortunately, the Indian government is not doing a darn thing about it either. Wherever you turn your eye, streets are litter-invested with a mixture of mud, dirt and plastic.
It takes a while before I find a place to sleep myself, here and there I get sent away. Some hotels have signs that read “Forbidden for whites!” In other hotels they are less expressive of why I am not welcome. Even when money is shown they make it obvious the reason for refusing me is that they’re not fond of my skin color. It might be because of what happened three generations ago, but what does that have to do with me? Discrimination is something I can’t comprehend.
Still, it might be better than being a woman in India. A group that are being mistreated on a large and neglected scale. They are beaten, raped, killed, mutilated and burned alive by sick men. Many households have small kerosene ovens that are used to stage an accident. Therefore, it is no exception to see women with horrible burn marks, and so perpetrators often go unpunished. Do not get me started on their version of marriage either, as grooms request disproportionate dowries from their in-law families, who are traditionally obligated to pay for the whole ceremony. Towards the slums, people resemble walking skeletons with sunken eyes and sometimes not too far from decent apartment complexes and neat districts. At those places, it’s the Asian Middle Ages right there. Invested with flies, rats, cockroaches and God knows what. Certain shorelines have so much plastic piled up you cannot even see the beach anymore. The water is severely contaminated. I will be the last to point at someone with my finger, yet here it is easy to imagine how those infamous massive islands of rubbish came to be, that are floating across our oceans.
At night a truck saunters brickless streets. Corpses are thrown in the open back of those having lost the struggle against these inhumane conditions. Once your retina testifies of seeing these things, I guarantee you will never be the same person again. I guess the popular travel magazines remain silent about these things, the true life of India. All this while the government is spending billions trying to send a rocket into space which will never make it there anyway. Speaking about a waste of money.
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Today I’m watching red crabs at a bayside enjoying the optical illusion of a smaller getting sun. In one of the better neighborhoods, the milled rocks where the little salty creatures hide when disturbed, are still warm from the nice day. Here I am thinking about my time that has come to an end. I would like to drive further to tropical Goa, or even all the way down south to Sri Lanka, but my Jialing motorcycle already fell apart by just watching it. Frankly, I am too sapped to move on like this anyway. Therefore, with pain in my heart, now feeling completely naked and vulnerable again, I just sold that two-wheeled Chinese piece of junk. Due to missing license plates I had to use a fake ID required for the transfer. Luckily for me these jackasses actually fell for my tinker skills, so I guess what I learned from falsifying my bus pass as a teenager came in handy. Finally, a chance to scam somebody back, as I’m still having to face their attempts daily. Remembering the adventure with Steve and beautiful moments with inspiring people, I realize what an incredible journey it has been.
My last days in the country are spent on the exploited and overrated Elephanta Island. No idea about the legitimacy of these things, from what I can see it surely is good for pulling multitudes of tourists to watch the supposed fifth century temples in a cave. No cameras allowed unless you put down additional cash. Everything is
about the cash. Walking towards the main attraction the gentle stairs is filled with pushy salesmen and beggars. Their unambitious behavior seems lower than that of the monkeys, which you should also keep an eye on. Once they are done swerving the lianas they will come for you. On the majority of products, a steady selling prize is printed on the wrapper. Regulated by the government you can check what the actual price of products are. Without any shame vendors are asking numbers well above what is legal, not knowing or not caring, they are biting the hand that feeds them. On the ferry towards the island, they charge extra to sit on the upper deck. It seems like they are really making an effort to spoil the mood. Since it remains empty above and crowded as heck below I don’t see any point in doing that anyway. I am sure in ten years from now they will even be charging the air you breathe.
It’s a small relief when we return to the pier and get out from the mild waves. Boats are unnatural to me. Close to the water, the quayside is graced with the luxurious Taj Mahal Palace hotel, by all means a fascinating structure. Finely tuned architecture is responsible for drawing wealthy Europeans back in the days. In fact, that is the sole reason why it was built for. In more recent times it has also been immensely popular among stars and celebrities. Later on, regrettably, it has been the target of international terrorism as you might remember from the news. A heavily armed and well-trained team of extremists coming from the neighboring country Pakistan, decided to storm the place, hold hostages and even set it on fire due to several explosions. Some people just want to see the world burn.
Last but not least there’s the frequently visited Gateway of India at the southern harbor. It is written that the heritage was supposed to have a road that connected with the city center to contribute to growing infrastructure, but it was never built due to a lack of financial sponsors. Right before hopping in a taxi towards the airport (where by the way I board the plane as the last passenger literally ten minutes before it takes off due to heavy traffic) I remember my travels with my Jialing and my ten thousand kilometers of unalloyed voyage over land. Not to mention the dozens of thousand of kilometers I already put to my name with trains on this trip alone. Staring at the monument I try to read the inscriptions sharply chiseled into the big brown stones. They are a vague remnant of a royal stopover by King George V and Queen Mary. Now nothing but a symbol of the once so glorious empire, it serves as a synonym for this trip that all good things must come to an end. Not that raping India by forcing labor on its citizens and robbing its resources was a good thing, but you get the point.
