barely escaped with her life.
I’d had my share of tempting Lady Luck over the years: speedway riding and road racing had been risky; and lighting a fire under a friend’s house to rid it of rats had been a tad suicidal. So, figuring that I was ahead on points, the insurance cost to be flown home and put back together, should the need arise, was a small price to pay. I saw it as no big deal. It was falling into the Ganges that really scared the bejesus out of me!
So far the trip had cost $6,000. Figuring on spending $50 a day, I intended to camp out often and eat at places frequented by locals.
In the final few days before departure, I was as restless as a drummer with a boil on his bum. Bags were packed and unpacked, and my itinerary was checked and rechecked. Visas had been applied for well in advance, the timing for each being critical. So much depended on how many miles I could do in a day, and whether a visa could be extended. Excitement cranked up a notch when the visa for India arrived.
I waited anxiously for my Pakistani visa. In desperation, I phoned the embassy in Canberra because Pakistan consular staff had my passport, and without it, I wouldn’t be going anywhere. ‘I’m sorry, sir, we cannot send it until you tell us where you’ll be staying in Pakistan,’ the official said politely. I directed him to my blog site, explaining that I didn’t have a clue where I might be sleeping, and promised I had no intention of overstaying. I was on a mission, I said, and I didn’t plan on being in any country longer than necessary. My passport, complete with an impressive visa was hand-delivered next day.
The visa for Iran, I was told, once it had been approved, would be waiting for me in Lahore. This was because, with Western embargoes on Iran, it couldn’t be issued in Australia, and money could not be paid to the Canberra embassy. With a little ingenuity, we circumvented this obstacle via an agent in Britain and a bank in Turkey. A magical number would be sent from Iran’s foreign affairs department, and this would be forwarded to the nominated consular office. I wasn’t about to let politics get in the way of my plans. I kept my fingers crossed that Australia wouldn’t stuff things up by imposing further sanctions on Iran. The visa for Nepal would be procured on entry, that being a cheaper option than applying for it outside the country.
Friends and family organised a lunch in Brisbane. It was a moving send-off. Like all goodbyes, this one was bittersweet, but I felt optimistic I’d return safe and sound. That night, I repacked my luggage one last time — just in case.
On Sunday, February 5, 2012, I left Brisbane. Lynne was to meet me in India in a few weeks. While I made my way south from Nepal, crossed the border and headed to Uttar Pradesh, she would fly to Delhi and travel by train to Agra, where we would spend a few days together. Lynne was keen to explore Rajasthan, and as my route would take me west through the state, this would provide a good opportunity for us to meet from time to time, and combine a little sightseeing with the day-to-day tasks that were bound to catch up with me.
So there were no teary farewells, just a long wait at the airport and a quick look back and a wave before boarding the flight to Thailand.
Nine hours later I arrived in steamy Bangkok. ‘Welcome, Mr Ron, my name is Noodle,’ beamed the manager of the Airport Hotel. I found his moniker as amusing as the Thai characters on my room’s computer keyboard. There was no way I would be able to send emails. Thankfully, I didn’t need to. Lynne called with last-minute instructions: be careful of pickpockets, avoid rabid dogs, and only eat cooked food. I promised to follow her advice.
Next morning, after a hearty bowl of thick rice porridge, I headed to the new Suvarnabhumi Airport for my connecting flight to Nepal. In just over three hours we descended into the narrow Kathmandu Valley with brief glimpses of the majestic Himalayas rising through the clouds. A gentle bump, the reverse-thrust scream, and the plane rolled to a halt. I’d arrived at the top of the world.
When the chap seated next to me asked why I had chosen to start my journey in Nepal, I replied, brightly, ‘Because, I will be riding all downhill from here!’
4
On Top of the World
The cold air packed a punch, and the heavy grey blanket hanging low over the world’s third-most polluted city threatened to swallow me whole. It might have been kinder to my lungs to stay on the plane.
Before going to find the FN, I searched for a phone-card seller.
‘I need to have your photo for our records,’ he said, yet barely glanced at my faded passport shot. It fazed him not at all that I was now grey-haired and a score years older. A photo of the flying nun would have satisfied him.
The clerk at Thai Airlines did the paperwork on a ‘Hemingway’ typewriter — an ideal contraption considering Nepal’s sporadic power supply. No money changed hands, either for the bill of lading or the carnet. Soon I was cheerfully on my way. All so easy!
Even though the customs shed was only a short walk away, a pushy tout insisted that for $20 we could drive there in his friend’s taxi. I refused. He stuck to me until we reached the shed, where he made one last attempt to get paid just for accompanying me. I sensed challenging times ahead.
Despite repeated checks at the counter, for two hours customs officials shuffled paperwork. Two men took me aside, and, out of earshot of the counter staff, told me what it would cost to get my bike released. I guessed they were brokers, and that the real amount was much less.
It reminded me of how often this scenario is played out the world over. The game is to keep the sucker waiting for as long as possible. Then, when his resistance is low and he’s running out of time, hit him with a charge they think he’ll accept. Call it baksheesh, a bribe, an honest-to-god fee, whatever — it all adds up to the same. In Nepal, Cancun or Timbuktu, wherever, it’s money that makes the wheels go round. Nothing is ever free, no matter which god one prays to.
I glanced nervously at the time, then said I would leave the bike and collect it next morning.
‘No, no. Paperwork is cleared. Cannot store. You must take now.’
I argued that there wasn’t time to assemble the bike before the warehouse closed at five o’clock. He shrugged, went into his office, and closed the door.
The FN’s handlebars, controls and pedal gear had been removed in Brisbane to keep the crate as small as possible. Reassembling it, with every man and his yak getting in the way, wasn’t easy. Each took a turn at passing me tools I didn’t need; and each just had to check that the horn worked. My patience was being sorely tested. No sooner had I unbolted the metal crate than it vanished. The Nepalese know a bargain when they see one. No doubt the container would be sold for a tidy sum.
Caught up in the urgency of the moment and suffering the effects of high altitude, I was all fingers and thumbs. The gas tank had been emptied before the flight, so I needed fuel. All the fuel outlets in the city seemed to be waiting for a delivery. What now! One fellow finally relented and parted with two litres from his own bike — at an exorbitant price. But at least I could get on my way.
The FN started first time. After a short warm up, I was hustled out the door, still cramming luggage aboard as I went. I’d been told to show my paperwork at the exit checkpoint, but I wasn’t stopping. I played dumb, gave the security guard a wave, and rode on.
It quickly became apparent that I had brought far too much gear, but at this stage, I had no
