JOURNAL: Off she went, devoured by the traffic as Russell finally made it out of Mumbai and on to the north bound highway to Rajasthan.
RUSSELL: (naive love) Ah, India! Here I come, my delicate lotus!
DRIVER: HONK! HONK!
RUSSELL backs up to the beep horn to back of stage.
INDIAN DRIVER: You are holding up the traffic you English nincompoop! (spits loudly)
RUSSELL wipes off spit which forms into wiping off malarial sweat. He’s spread out on the sheet. [Keep action in bed. Be listless, no energy through everything]
SPOT
RUSSELL’S FATHER: Should’ve stayed at home, Russell.
RUSSELL: (Surprised, can’t believe it) Dad?! What are you doing here? You’re … dead.
RUSSELL’S FATHER: Well, I heard you gotta touch of malaria.
RUSSELL: ‘A touch of malaria?’
RUSSELL’S FATHER: You should’ve stayed at home and got ya self a really nice three-bedroom brick venereal in Ringwood.
JOURNAL: That’s Leith, to you people.
RUSSELL: (honest) DAD! … I’M DYYYING!
RUSSELL’S FATHER: (pause) You right for money?
RUSSELL: Well, actually –
RUSSELL’S FATHER: Is that the time is it?
FATHER turns and deflates into RUSSELL cycling in desert.
SFX: BACKGROUND NOISE OF THE DESERT – CICADAS
JOURNAL is riding a horse. He looks through his binoculars.
JOURNAL: (Aside) Ah, there he is. Somewhere in the wilds of the Rajasthan desert our protagonist continues on his merry journey, pushing his bike through sand drifts, desert heat and countless thorns that puncture his tyres.
RUSSELL: (Mimics puncture sound) SSSSSSSS! Ohh!
JOURNAL: He falls off his bike.
RUSSELL: What?
JOURNAL: (not too nasty) I said ‘He falls off his bike’.
RUSSELL does a lame fall. Get down to floor level but don’t get dirty.
JOURNAL: (Side of mouth) Arsehole! He gets back on and rides through the tireless heat for hours. He gets another puncture …
RUSSELL: No I didn’t.
SFX: SSSSSSSSS!
RUSSELL: Blast!
JOURNAL: Has a stack with a yak.
RUSSELL: There aren’t any yaks in India – MOOOO! AAGGGHH!
JOURNAL: Is chased by pack of wild dogs.
RUSSELL: WHOOF! WHOOF! Get away from me you bastards!
JOURNAL: He unwittingly steps in a human shit.
RUSSELL looks under his shoe.
JOURNAL: And … it’s his own.
RUSSELL reacts.
JOURNAL: It is in the desert we leave him to the long, lonely rides, seeing no one for days, consumed by the empty space of existence.
RUSSELL cycles around the stage or into the audience.
RUSSELL: (straight in, loud and fast) Charlene don’t like it … Rock the Kasbah! Fuck the Kasbah! Rachael don’t like it … Rock … the …Kasbah … (slowing down) Fuck … the … (sadder) caps … bah …
He looks around, tries to trudge on but is overcome by the huge vast of nothing around him.
RUSSELL: Hey … (energy picks up) who’s that sexy lady ahead at that chai stall, (quieter) the chai stall, the, the, chai stall?’
TONI: (Sipping a hot chai) Hiya, Russell, it’s meeeee!
RUSSELL: Ugh! (pedals faster) Phew … (Kasbah tune) I re-ally don’t like her. She’s a wan-ker, I’d love to spank her – Ah!
RUSSELL cycles off and a bit later loses balance and sways, hitting a bad road, bouncing everywhere.
JOURNAL: (To the audience) Ow! (bent over) The one thing they don’t tell you about cycle touring is the pain. First it’s your bottom. ‘Hey! I’m going numb down here.’ So you stop. Adjust your seat. Then your testicles complain (blows up his cheeks) ‘Oi! We feel like we’re being deep sea trawled, mate! Do something about it’. So you stop again, adjust the chaps, ‘Thanks mate,’ get back on, then your hands join in (they give him the bird then attack his face). Everything is fine for a while when your arse pitches in again ‘Oi!’.
JOURNAL: By the time Russell got to the tiny desert town of Shergarth he was walking on his knuckles.
JOURNAL becomes a gorilla, throws his arms up, and then becomes RUPSESH.
RUPESH: (Cork up his arse, glasses – do it a few times, get the audience) Namaste! Namaste! Hello! I am Rupesh. I will take you to the best hotel in Shergarth.
JOURNAL: And he did. It was the best hotel because it was the only hotel in Shergarth.
RUSSELL: (writing in his journal, loving it all) As the sun started to set I walked with Rupesh, a 19-year-old engineering student, amongst the rolling desert hills. I bet Bill Bryson had it this good!
RUPESH: What are you writing, Russell?
RUSSELL: Oh, a book on India.
RUPESH: India? Come then. I must take you to a very special place. (They walk – wait for music as you raise your arm). Is it not vonderful, Russell?
MUSIC: Beautiful Indian music crescendo then fade, continue through scene
RUSSELL: Oh, yeaahh!
JOURNAL: Beyond a sand dune was a grand temple rising out of the desert sands. At its entrance was a huge pair of monkey balls, carved in brilliant white marble and resting in the eye sockets of young virgins.
RUSSELL: What is this place, Rupesh?
RUPESH: It is the temple to one of our most important Hindu gods, Hanuman, the monkey god.
RUSSELL: Oh, I see. Hey, there little fella –
JOURNAL: I wouldn’t do that if I were you Russell. Let’s not forget Borneo, 1927.
RUPESH: Don’t touch the monkeys.
RUSSELL: Why?
RUPESH: They’re pests! They steal things, tear your clothes. We Indians hate them.
RUSSELL: I don’t get it. Hanuman is your monkey god.
RUPESH: Yes.
RUSSELL: And you revere Hanuman?
RUPESH: Yes.
RUSSELL: And you say that Indians hate monkeys.
RUPESH: Yes.
RUSSELL: So why do you revere monkeys if you hate them?
RUPESH: (Pause) I don’t get it either.
RUPESH deflates into RUSSELL pumping his bike.
RUSSELL’S FATHER: Son, you should’ve used your Schrader valves there. Now when I was cycling –
RUSSELL: Daddd!
RUSSELL’S FATHER: And that poofter pump is not much chop.
RUSSELL: Pissss off!
RUSSELL looks around. He is being watched.
INDIAN 1: (mid voice) Hello, sir. Which country?
RUSSELL: (look at audience) Australia.
INDIAN 1: Ah! Cricket! Shane Warne! What is your good name?
RUSSELL: Russell.
INDIAN 1: What are you doing in India?
RUSSELL: Cycling.
INDIAN 2: (high voice) Hello, sir. Which country?
RUSSELL: Australia!
INDIAN 2: Ah! Cricket! Shane Warne! What is your good name?
RUSSELL: Russell!
INDIAN 3: (lips) Hello, sir. Which country?
RUSSELL: AUSTRALIA!
INDIAN 3: Ah! Cricket! Shane Warne! What are you doing in India?
INDIAN 4: (raspy voice) Hello, sir. Which country?
RUSSELL: Australia.
INDIAN 4: Ah! Cricket! Shane Warne! What is your good name?
RUSSELL: Russell.
INDIAN 4: What are you doing in India?
RUSSELL: CYCLING! (pump flies out of his hand)
INDIAN 1: (mid voice) (poking) Gear cycle!
RUSSELL: Hey, don’t touch the gears. They break easily.
INDIAN 2: (high voice) (picking up, looking through it) Camera!
RUSSELL: Ah, could you put that down.
INDIAN 4: (Raspy) (flicking it like an elastic band) Condom!
RUSSELL: GIVE ME THAT! RIGHT! STAND BACK! STAND BACK!
TONI: How do you like it now, ‘travellers like me’?
RUSSELL: AARRRH!
ASIF: Hello, sir. Which country?
ASIF: (pause) I think you’re lying.
RUSSELL: AUSTRALIA! CYCLING … er … RUSSELL! Okay?
ASIF: Sorry?
RUSSELL: I thought you were … forget it.
ASIF: I am Asif.
RUSSELL: As if what?
ASIF: I am the mayor of this town.
RUSSELL: Town? What town?
ASIF: Bagaha.
RUSSELL: Excuse me?
ASIF: Bagaha.
RUSSELL: You can bugger yourself, sunshine.
ASIF: Acha! You have an audience.
RUSSELL: Yes, I do!
ASIF: They think that you are a movie star.
RUSSELL: (Pause) Oh, really? (He smiles at them) Nooo!! Really? I wonder who the think I am?
ASIF: Acha! Puncture.
RUSSELL: It’s okay. I’ve mended it.
ASIF: Not a problem. I pump you.
RUSSELL: Excuse me?
ASIF: I pump you!
Asif pumps the tyre.
ASIF: You must be strong man cycling India.
He pumps vigorously.
ASIF: Strong man. Yes. You must have many wives. Many, many, many, MANY, MANY – BANG! SSS (tries to blow it back up with his mouth) SSSSS. (Pause) Sorry. Broken rubber. I am pumping you too much. Not a problem. My brother will fix. HAJEE! Come to my uncle’s restaurant. He will make you the best food in India. Something not too hot for your Western tongue.
RUSSELL looks over his right shoulder, worried about his bike. Asif pulls his face to left. JOURNAL enters the restaurant.
JOURNAL: It was your typical Indian restaurant … except for –
MUSIC: TECHNO HINDI MUSIC BLASTS
JOURNAL dances, becomes UNCLE, dances, then stops on needle rip.
UNCLE: Ah, hello sir. You are hungry? You are wanting lunch? We have palak paneer, gobi mutter, chicken markani, … you vant it?
RUSSELL: What’s in the chicken markani?
UNCLE: Er … chicken … yes! And … er … er … markani.
RUSSELL: Okay. I’ll have that. Haven’t we met before?
UNCLE: (looks over right shoulder) No, sir. (To himself to upstage) White monkey!
He exits.
MUSIC: TECHNO
UNCLE: (shouts) CHICKEN MARKANI!
UNCLE dances. He comes back out with the food from same door.
UNCLE: There you are, sir. Palak paneer.
RUSSELL: I wanted chicken.
UNCLE: Palak paneer!
RUSSELL: But –
UNCLE: (menacingly) You don’t like India food?
RUSSELL: Yes, but –
UNCLE: Very good. (He does a half turn and comes back as RUSSELL). Enjoy.
Russell eats the food.
RUSSELL: Mmm … AAAAGGGHHH!! …
Pours glasses of water in his mouth but this makes it worse. He looks for other options to cool down the heat. Bread, salt, then his shirt)
RUSSELL: (squeaking) Where’s my bike? Where’s my bike?
He runs out and jumps on the bike. He rides for a while, calms down but then clutches his stomach (convulses) and gets off the bike. Desperately looks for the loo paper which he can’t find.
RUSSELL: Where is it? WHERE IS IT?!
He pulls out some loo paper, looks around for a place to go, then hoists his shorts down.
RUSSELL is blown across the stage by his own shitting and farting and ends in a collapsed heap. He lets out one horrible fart which is so bad that (wait on laugh then smell it) when he smells it [fight the urge to vomit] he vomits.
JOURNAL: Good lord, Russell. (sniffs) Talk about chemical warfare! (JOURNAL swoons) Oh, dear.
He vomits to the right once, smokes, collapses into RUSSELL then INDIAN 1.
INDIAN 1: (mid voice) Hello, sir. Which county?
INDIAN 2: (lips) What is your good name?
RUSSELL: WHAT THE –
INDIAN 3: (raspy) Sir, just one photo. Please, sir. Please, sir
RUSSELL: AHHHH!!!!
He runs into the sheet and wraps himself up (quicker in getting there). He’s having a ranting night-sweat.
RUSSELL: Aaagh! Noo … my luck numbers one … ooh, eeeh!
DR CHAWLA: (wrapped up in the sheet) Mr Russellss! How are you today? We have taken another blood test. Unfortunately, you are still having the malaria.
RUSSELL: Congratulations!
DR CHAWLA: Congratulations? This is a very peculiar thing for you to say.
DR CHAWLA flaps wings three times then snaps back to DR CHAWLA, smiling.
RUSSELL: (Freaking out) There’s a green lizard on your shoulder!
DR CHAWLA: I don’t see anything (he brushes it off). You must take this serious – YAWK!
DR CHAWLA becomes a chicken. RUSSELL freaks out. Snap back to DR CHAWLA with stethoscope.
DR CHAWLA: This is very (pogo stick – twice) bad news for you, sir. You are not responding (becomes a dinosaur and lunges at audience) to the treatment.
RUSSELL: (hiding behind his hands) Can’t we try something else?
DR CHAWLA: Well, come to think of it, there is an ancient Ayurvedic custom we could try.
RUSSELL: Ok.
DR CHAWLA: (sinister intent) It is called mariji cola.
RUSSELL: What’s that?
DR CHAWLA: You have to drink your own urine.
RUSSELL: Oh, come on! You’re taking the piss!
DR CHAWLA: Yes. I have been since 1996 and I feel much better for it. It can cure many ailments: sunburn, athlete’s foot, indigestion, diarrhoea, gonorrhoea, tetanus, typhus, (pause) thrush, acne, diphtheria, flatulence –
FADE TO BLACK
SFX: PLANE LANDING.
CHAWLA: – Housemaid’s knee, Grocer’s Itch, Spinal Bifa –
RUSSELL looks for RACHAEL at the airport.
RUSSELL: Rachael? Where is she? Where is she? There she is! RACHAEL! RACHAEL! OVER HERE!
RACHAEL: Oh, Russell! RUSSELL! Here!
RUSSELL lunges at her.
RACHAEL: Oh, no! Russell. Not here. No, don’t touch me! Don’t! Don’t touch me!
MUSIC: ‘TOUCH ME’ SONG
RACHAEL: Touch me … Don’t touch me
Touch me soniya
Touch me … don’t touch me …
AH, touch me soniya!
RUSSELL: Teekhi teekhi teri akhiyaan
Chooke chooke behkaati hain
Dekh dekh na yun mujko
Hosh hosh le jati hain
RACHAEL: Chodh chodh meri rahoon ko
Tauba tauba darr lagta hai
Aisi waisi teri baaton se
Ishq vishq sa jagta hai
RUSSELL: Deewana dil kahin kho jaye na
Humse khata koi ho jaaye na
RACHAEL: Touch me … don’t touch me …
Don’t touch
Don’t touch me …
Touch me
RUSSELL and RACHAEL break out into a Bollywood dance number, cooing and jumping about, almost kissing, then not. When the dancing finishes they start fucking.
MUSIC: ‘FUCK THE PAIN AWAY’ by the Peaches
RACHAEL stands; he goes down on her, swings her to the side doggy style. He fucks to the audience, eyes fluttering, a miserable orgasm, vulnerable, sad.
RUSSELL: (apologetic) I’M COMING, I’M COMING I’M …
Rachael disengages
RACHAEL: Oh, Russell! That was fabulous! (she rubs his back) Well done.
RUSSELL: Wasn’t it! Hey, you couldn’t get me a glass of water?
RACHAEL: Sure honey. Back in a minute.
Russell starts writing.
RUSSELL: ‘I’m coming!’ ‘Oh, Russell. That was fabulous.’
JOURNAL: (cigarette) I say, Russell. Took no prisoners there. A real naval engagement.
BALLS: So that’s why we’ve got concussion.
BUM: I had a finger down my throat.
RUSSELL’S FATHER: And I had a stiffy that I could’ve poked a dog from under a bed with!
RUSSELL: Eww! Daaad! Get out of here! All of you.
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br /> RACHAEL returns with the water. RUSSELL drinks it.
RACHAEL: Who you talking to honey?
RUSSELL: (hiding the journal) No one.
RACHAEL: Russell, you know how you said you’d always love me?
RUSSELL: Yes.
RACHAEL: And that if I ever had anything to tell you you’d understand?
RUSSELL: (worried) Yes?
RACHAEL: And if for whatever reason our plans changed that that would always be okay with you?
RUSSELL: YES?!
RACHAEL: Well … I want to cycle with you.
RUSSELL: What?
RACHAEL: I said, I want to cycle with you all the way to Beijing!
RUSSELL: (Stricken) Oh, I thought you just wanted to hike Nepal for a month and then off to Europe.
RACHAEL: Well, can I?
RUSSELL: (Pause) Ssssurre. It’ll be … GRREAT! Hahahah … ughhhh …
Falls into malarial fever.
He reaches under the bed and retrieves a water bottle. He tries to drink it but it’s empty. He looks at the bottle, at his groin, at the bottle, then at his groin again. He gets up and back to the audience, tries to piss.
DR CHAWLA: (Whispers) Mariji Coooola!
RUSSELL: (struggle with pissing) This is not going to work.
OBI WAN: (head to left) Use the Force, Luke. The Force!
RUSSELL: (head over shoulder to right) Oh, thanks. Aagghhh!!
Finished, he turns around. He sniffs it.
RUSSELL: (recoils) Ugh!
He moves downstage, contemplates it, then …
RUSSELL: (To himself) One, two, three –
He stops himself. RUSSELL’S FATHER, to the left of him, forces it down his throat, holding the back of his head.
FATHER: (Pause) Come on, mate. It’s good for ya son! GOOD FOR YA! COME ON! Just think of it as … Tequila.
RUSSELL: Hey, Tequila! (visual cue for techs)
MUSIC: ‘TEQUILA’
He dances, offering it to the audience. He pours salt on his hand (to audience). As he goes to drink the water and on ‘TEQUILA’ in the song –
SPOT
The seal breaks and the urine splashes all over him. He reaches for a lemon, eats it then spits it out. A beat. He throws up.
JOURNAL: (coughing, wiping his moustache, feverish and mad) Damn that monkey bite! 1927, Borneo. An O-rang-o-tang. Continuing with their adventure, Russell and Rachael head over the Himalayas and into India. (He coughs) Damn Alpine air. (puffs until he is happy).
Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle Page 31
