The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  “Uh huh, just get these socks on, yeah?”

  For five minutes, I’ve watched Ben attempt to thread a pair of frayed shoelaces onto a disintegrating pair of ancient sneakers. He’s agonisingly unrushed. It’s like watching jelly set. In slow motion.

  “So, which airline did you guys take from the States?”

  “China Air,” says Josh.

  “How was that?”

  Ben shudders. “Whoa … too long, man. Waaay too long.”

  “Ben’s never been on a plane before,” says Josh, thus partly explaining his father’s herbal cure for flight anxiety.

  “First time, man. Been lost in Oregon for the thirty-seven years,” says the old guy with a wide grin. “And smoking pot for the last thirty-five!”

  “Guess you needed a vacation,” deadpans Josh. It’s an uncharacteristic show of humour but in an instant we all burst out laughing.

  “Well, thought I’d better take a look around, man.” Ben says, swapping a mischievous glance with his kin. “Choose a new path to a greater journey, huh?” He raises his hand and Josh obliges him with a ‘high-five’. Beards and dreadlocks bounce erratically making the scene looks like a Nike ad … for Air Jesus or something.

  Of course, it’s obvious that Ben isn’t actually lost - he has his son to guide him. And Josh really does know his shit. Plus the two men have a strong father/son bond. Again, I’m envious because, like lots of boys, the relationship I had with my dad wasn’t always good. I grew up constantly thinking the towering masculine figure in my life was too hard, and knowing he thought I was too soft. As a consequence, we both came to the same conclusion that I wasn’t tough enough, smart enough or good enough. Which, in all honesty, was a fair call. Of course, this truth left me angst-ridden and full of rage like every other fucked-up son around the world.

  I was four when I met my father, so I attributed his disliking of me to the fact that I wasn’t his biological child. Sadly, it took almost twenty years for me to realise my assumptions were off track. Truth is, he didn’t hate me, he just wanted me to be ‘more’, because he had spent his whole life feeling ‘less’. My life changed when I realised that. I let go of a lot of baggage I’d been dragging around.

  As for my ‘evil stepfather’ theory, well, that victim thread unraveled years earlier when I discovered that my biological father, and namesake, was actually the real asshole. The evidence tendered was proof of that; a possessive partner who broke his wife’s arm, constantly beat her face and, for good measure, punched her gut when she was nine months pregnant. This last act occurred because his child hadn’t arrived at exactly forty weeks, which could only mean one thing to him: that I wasn’t his kid.

  This is the kind of dumb fuck that gifted me his DNA. And if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say, then I’m shit outta luck because I’m probably like him. Which has always been my worst fear. Of course, deep inside, I know I’m a better man. I’m not a violent drunk who landed behind bars for misdemeanours most people avoid by utilising common sense. And I’m not an emotional manipulator who rewarded weekend jail visits with the whispered ultimatum of ‘If you leave, I’ll kill you both’.

  To me, shit like that doesn’t make sense. And God knows, I’ve spent years trying to make sense of it. Trying to comprehend how this father of mine—this man—could hurt his partner and want to kill his own child. And yet, when it comes to fathers, I was probably blessed. I mean, life could have been worse … I mean, I could have been related to Ben!

  I don’t really feel that way about Josh’s dad, of course. I actually really like the man and I’m grateful to be in his presence. Josh’s too. Because both welcomed me into their family unit when they recognised my fear. They’re caring instead of intimidating, which is unusual for men. It’s an easy mateship that’s evidently been nurtured between each other. And I see it in their simplest actions: a son helping compress his dad’s baggage then offering to carry that burden on his own broad shoulders; a father placing a light hand on his little boy’s back in a silent show of appreciation. Nothing masculine. Just affectionate. Loving. Protective.

  Paternal.

  Finally, with Ben packed and ready to go, the three of us are ready to, well… smoke the joint.

  To avoid the infamous touting taxi drivers outside the terminal, Josh suggests we organise a pre-paid cab inside the terminal. We find the transport counters near the airport exit and lay down cash for our trip to the city. The harassment from rival cab touts is so thorough inside the terminal that I begin to dread what vulture-like attack lies outside. As we edge towards the glass doors, an expectant crowd gathers in readiness for our terminal departure. The automatic doors slide open and a blast of furnace-like humidity swallows us. In an instant, I perspire onto my shirt and it sticks to my torso like honey-smeared cling-wrap.

  Reluctantly, we step outside.

  Within seconds, scores of taxi drivers blanket us, clawing for attention. The intensity catches me off guard. Not Josh, however, because he’s lived this nightmare before. Barging through the onslaught like an angry bull, he bucks off their advances with grunts of ‘No!’ and pointed swearing. In contrast, Ben and I prance behind in silent terror, like timid ponies.

  Eventually, we find our pre-paid taxi van and clamber inside to safety. Dozens of eyes peer at us through the windows, prompting me to count down the seconds to escape. I countdown once, twice, three times … before I realise there’s no forthcoming escape. I look to the driver, whose eyes fill the rear view mirror.

  “Baksheesh,” he says.

  “No,” says Josh firmly. “This is a pre-paid taxi.”

  “Baksheesh!” repeats the driver.

  “No,” snaps Josh. “We already paid inside.”

  “Please, baksheesh.”

  “No, baksheesh. This is a pre-paid taxi.”

  “No pre-pay,” shouts the driver. “Baksheesh.”

  “We paid inside the terminal,” screams Josh, rising to the challenge. “I will go straight back inside and you’ll lose this fare.”

  The driver considers this in silence for a moment.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Fucking Baksheesh,” explains Josh. “He wants a tip. If you don’t pay, these assholes drop you in the middle of nowhere.”

  The driver interrupts: “Please, very poor. Very big family. Many children.”

  I glance at the man’s reflection, searching for any hint of dishonesty.

  “How much does he want?”

  “Who knows,” sighs Josh. “That’s not the point, though. They pull this shit every time.” He unfolds his roll of cash and hands over a twenty-rupee note.

  The driver looks at it as if he’s been personally insulted.

  “Very poor family. One hundred rupee. Very, very poor.”

  Josh unfurls some extra cash. “Fifty rupees,” he counters. “That’s it. No more.”

  The man nods in that Indian head-bobble way and Josh passes the cash across. I take a moment to mentally tally the cost. Fifty rupees is the rough equivalent of the price of a can of Coke back home. The driver stuffs the notes in his shirt pocket and, as if nothing ever happened, we simply drive off.

  Straight into Delhi’s peak hour traffic.

  Now, for the uninitiated, like myself, Indian road rules are one hell of a mind-fuck. Nothing I see makes sense. Eight lanes of vehicles are crammed onto a four-lane highway. Dozens of motorcycles (many with entire families on board, all without helmets, except for the actual ‘rider’) zig-zag across the blacktop. Alongside them are scores of auto-rickshaws, cars, buses, trucks and, of course, cows. All of them going wherever the hell they please.

  Ben and I exchange shocked looks.

  “Man, I can’t believe this place,” he says. “I never thought I’d see this. This is just … man … this is just blowing me away.”

  “Fucking Delhi,” says Josh flatly.

  “Man, did you see those cows?” asks an animated Ben. “They’ve got broken legs.
Dude, that is so cruel. Why don’t they put them out of their misery?”

  “They’re sacred,” answers Josh. “Hindus don’t kill or eat them.”

  “Brahman cattle,” I say with authority, remembering a different time and place. “They breed them by the thousands where I’m from.”

  “What for?” asks Ben without thought.

  I notice the driver eyeing me in the rear-vision mirror.

  “Food,” I say quietly.

  I divert my gaze back to the view outside in time to catch a familiar sight at the edge of the highway. On dusty patches of earth, males of all ages are engaged in the same impromptu bat and ball game that featured heavily in my youth. The game of cricket. The sport scene takes me back to a carefree time playing with friends. Our bare feet shod with dirt as we ran ragged after balls that held zero interest to the muscular cattle that roamed just beyond the barbed-wire fence.

  I smile at the memory and begin to relax. Suddenly, everything seems easy. I can do this. I can survive backpacking. I can survive India.

  The feeling, however, is short-lived.

  Oh, fuck…

  As our pre-paid taxi pulls to a halt in the Main Bazaar of Old Delhi, I am broadsided by a rare moment of clarity:

  I’m going to die in India.

  I’m going to have a heart attack. Or a brain aneurysm. Or something. Jesus, I can already feel my chest constricting.

  Outside, a crowd of thousands streams across the narrow dirt street we’ve parked on. Around them, loom scores of ramshackle multi-storey buildings that seemingly defy gravity with nothing but the help of a million knotted electricity cables and a shit load of good luck. Their dilapidated concrete walls support dozens of dust-covered awnings, haphazard shop signage and crumbling balconies. All of it in various states of disrepair.

  The inconsistency of the architecture is so disorienting that it’s impossible to get my bearings. Where are the sharp 7/11 signs from Bangkok? The monolithic McDonalds logos from back home? All I see is confusion and endless disorder. All I see is disaster.

  I glance at Ben hoping to find order on his face, but the old hop-head is frantically tracking every movement beyond the taxi window like a skittish cat.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this, man,” he says. “This is insane.”

  Josh casually hauls his backpack onto his shoulders and turns towards us. “Welcome to India!” he says, with a wry grin.

  Welcome to Paharganj to be precise.

  This is Delhi’s budget backpacker haven. According to Josh, accommodation can be had for five bucks a night in this cesspit, which is why the tight-fisted hippie motherfucker brought us here.

  The three of us climb free of the van and immediately my nasal passage is assaulted by the perfume of Paharganj, which is an aromatic pot pourri of diesel fumes, human waste and rotting refuse. It’s a blend that, once again, provides a less-than-subtle reminder of the joys of cultural immersion.

  “Follow me,” orders Josh.

  I don’t need to be told twice. So, like an obsessed lover, I blindly stalk him through an obstacle course of wandering cows, emaciated dogs and sweaty human bodies. I look behind to track Ben’s progress and am greeted with the view of him tip-toeing through a minefield of cow shit with all the grace of a drunken ballerina. We dance past numerous hole-in-the-wall shops that overflow with saris, shoes, bangles, spices and incense. Our march of madness interrupted by shop sellers, travel touts, rickshaw drivers and any other asshole who wants our attention. It’s beyond exhausting. And within minutes, I’m taut of body, mentally overloaded … and feeling more alive than I’ve ever felt in my life!

  Eventually, guru Josh ushers us into the foyer of his chosen sanctuary and we discover some inner peace. After a short exchange with a pair of mouthy middle-aged male receptionists, we go our separate ways and inspect the accommodation on offer.

  Upstairs, a guesthouse worker shows me a single room. It’s beyond horrific. The walls are unpainted and the crumbling render is adorned with graffiti. The toilet has no seat, the shower has no shower-head and dozens of tiles are missing from the filthy recess. It’s as if the task of interior design was contracted to an urban assault force procured from the Gaza strip.

  The room does have one attraction, however - it costs five dollars, as Josh promised. Plus, its weathered patina has the potential to convince a virgin backpacker that he is, in fact, a rugged world adventurer.

  I head back to the foyer, keen to hand over my five bucks. Ben and Josh are already waiting when I arrive. Surprisingly, the back-block hippies have chosen to book a relatively luxurious top-floor, air conditioned double with view. The knowledge that I’ve beaten them in the ‘I’m roughing it more than you’ challenge, secretly pleases me. Until I discover their opulent room is costing just ten dollars. I secretly feel like a fool after that.

  Together, we wait near the reception counter as the two cheeky Indian clerks sign-in a Japanese backpacker. On show is my first real experience of a well-known drama called ‘Indian Bureaucracy’. Apparently, in this country, it takes two people to read a single passport, write a single name and hand over a single room key. And apparently these two people need a lifetime to do it.

  “You know what this Japan is standing for?” asks one of the clerks as he gravely scans the Japanese passport.

  The Asian guy shrugs his shoulders in confusion.

  The clerk spells it out. “J-A-P-A-N,” he says. “You know what this is standing for?” The backpacker is oblivious.

  “Jumping And Pumping All Night,” says the clerk. Immediately he and his mate fall into hysterics.

  “That is you, yes?” says the other jester. “Japan man looking for sexy time?”

  The backpacker is all at sea, drowning in a cultural wash of Indian English and weird sexual innuendo.

  Eventually, the clerks hand over a room key and the Japanese dude hot-foots it to safety. Josh and Ben step forward in his place. Both relinquish their passports and the clerks study the embossed eagle insignias.

  “Ah, United States of America,” says one. “You know what U.S.A really is standing for?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” says Josh flatly.

  The clerk smiles broadly. “Unloved Self Abusers!” Again the jokesters laugh.

  Josh and Ben don’t, however.

  “You hear this joke before?” asks a clerk. Josh shakes his head. “Oh, just serious backpacker? Not much laughing in you, yes?”

  Josh forces a thin smile and waits silently for his name to be penciled into the reservation book. Once done, the clerk slides the passport back to Josh.

  “My friend, this is just joking. Not serious, okay? In India this is for smiling talk. Everyone happy in India. See?” He smiles to demonstrate. “Please… be happy and enjoy my country, Mr USA.”

  Josh coaxes out another weak smile before grabbing the room key. Then he backs away from the counter, leaving me exposed to the clerks’ scrutiny. Reluctantly, I present my passport.

  “Australia?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a smile. Big smile. Much smiling for being in happy India.

  The two men nod. “Acha, acha… very good. Australia very good. Very good cricket players. Steve Waugh, Adam Gilchrist, Shane Warne. Very, very good.”

  My smile widens.

  The three names uttered may mean little to Ben and Josh, but to me they’re heaven sent and soon the clerks and I are dissecting India’s main religion - cricket.

  “Man, that game is even worse than baseball,” scoffs Josh.

  “Baseball?!” barks one of the Indians with derision. “Silly American game.” He looks to me for confirmation but I’m not in the habit of trash-talking my friends. Well, not in front of them.

  “I have something you guys might be interested in,” I say, grabbing my backpack. After a rudimentary search, I retrieve an object. It’s a twenty cent coin minted with an image of the world’s greatest cricket player on one side. I toss it across the reception counter to a
clerk.

  “Who is this?” he asks. “Bradman?!”

  “Yeah, The Don.”

  “Sir Donald Bradman?!” asks the other clerk in surprise.

  I nod. “Special edition.”

  “From Australia?”

  “Yeah.”

  Both men take it in turns to trace the coin’s raised relief with their fingers. “Very good batting average,” says one.

  “Very very good,” parrots the other.

  “99.94 percent,” I say. “Near perfect, run a ball.” I can see my American friends are bored beyond belief. “Bradman was the Babe Ruth of cricket,” I explain to Ben and Josh.

  A second later, the coin disappears into one of the Indians’ shirt pocket. “Thank you very much,” he says. “Big discount for your room.”

  “Do you have any more of these coins?” asks his offsider.

  Their brazen sense of entitlement riles me.

  “No,” I lie. “That’s the only one.”

  In truth, I have over a dozen more coins. But I didn’t cart them to India to buy a discount on a shitty room in Paharganj. I brought the coins for a specific reason. To pay a personal debt. Because, unlike Don Bradman, the legacy of my past is far from perfect.

  When dawn arrives I’m well and truly convinced that, even at five dollars, my room is over-priced. The toilet doesn’t flush, the shower runs cold, the air conditioner doesn’t work and the grotty mattress houses a congregation of bed-bugs whose sharing of my body drove me insane and had me praying for a can of inspect repellant or an earth-bound meteorite. As a result, I’ve barely slept.

  I head downstairs.

  In an instant, my mood improves because, outside, the road leading to my new destiny is surprisingly calm. The inquisitive child inside me stirs and instead of hardship and peril, I see possible adventure. Swinging my daypack over my shoulder, I head out into the foreign surroundings for a bit of a stroll. Initially, visions of filth and neglect dominate my eye-line but after a few short minutes my perspective shifts. I begin to see everything with intrigue and amazement until, implausibly, I form the opinion that Old Delhi is actually an incredible place.