I threw the bike cover over the bed and spread out my sleeping bag. Despite the grim conditions, there was a shower, but only after I’d cleared a bird’s nest of hair and other unmentionables from the drain.
The day’s grime flushed away, it was great to be clean and to put on fresh but crumpled clothes. As I poked another hole in my belt, I had to accept that all the pedalling, to which I was unaccustomed, was taking its toll. At this rate, I’d be pipe-cleaner thin by the time I got to Belgium.
My route was to take me, via Basti, to Barabanki. I left at 5.00 am, and in the poor light I failed to notice there were two towns with the same name. You guessed: I chose the wrong one.
Sixty kilometres off course, and with me pushing hard to make up for lost time, the bike suffered a seizure on the number-one cylinder. I dismantled the engine on the side of the road, the usual horde of onlookers appearing from nowhere to stare in amazement as I laid out the parts in some semblance of order.
‘Can someone find me a hammer?’ I appealed to the crowd. One chap returned with a hefty mallet, which, despite its size, worked better than the rock I’d been using to drive out the gudgeon pin. I managed to file off the fused pieces of aluminium and was relieved to find no other visible damage. All the while, the onlookers chatted among themselves, picking up parts, examining and passing them back and forth. So great was the interest, I might have been a visitor from Mars.
Eventually, the bike was back together, and a quick shove helped me on my way. Two days into India and already I had broken down several times. Hoping this wasn’t an omen for the rest of the journey, I remained optimistic that keeping the FN going was achievable. My years of playing around with engines had taught me plenty. Without those mechanical skills, life would have been a whole lot tougher.
Almost from the moment I crossed the border, I recognised how much that religion is integral to life in India: ceremony takes precedence over everything. I found myself caught in processions even when I had no intention of joining in. One minute I’d be on my own — if such a thing is possible in India — the next I’d be surrounded by chanting devotees carrying banners and brilliantly decorated effigies. Everyone ambled along, in lengthy processions, oblivious to the traffic, which could be held up for hours.
The FN, too, was sometimes a traffic stopper. Motorists would drive alongside to gape at the bike and take pictures on their phones. The curiosity was to be expected, but when drivers swerved in front of the bike without warning it reminded me of the constant peril I faced. Someone once tried to tell me that life in India is not accorded much value. It is hard to imagine that drivers have a death wish, but, as in Bali, they certainly don’t appear to have any idea how dangerous their manoeuvres are. Already I was acutely aware that I was on a trip not for the faint-hearted!
6
One Born Every Minute
Each morning, the same routine: stretch inlet-valve springs; check tyre inflation; remove grit and water from carburettor bowl and jet. It was puzzling me that the contact points in the magneto were widening quickly yet reducing engine performance. This is the opposite of what normally happens.
And I had a funding problem. At first, I hadn’t realised it would be impossible to change foreign currency in small towns and villages. Therefore, I had to manage my ready cash so that, when it started to run low, I had to be within reach of a city — which meant that I then had to struggle through seemingly endless traffic congestion to find a bank.
In one city, just as I had negotiated my way around a moving truck, the engine stopped. Again! This time it was a broken magneto spring. It seemed that everything on the bike was going to need replacing at least once. Luckily, I’d foreseen this possibility and had brought along two spares fashioned from a hacksaw blade.
Much later, having left Kanpur and finally making it to the NH2 (National Highway 2), I ran into a heavy traffic jam. A truck had rolled and its load of grain was strewn across the highway. A long delay ensued. The driver cleared away the mess, while all and sundry stepped in to direct traffic. Talk about having too many chiefs and not enough Indians!
A further setback occurred when I came upon another accident. This time a pedestrian was injured and people seemed to be arguing about who was responsible. I hoped I would never cause an accident — facing an irate crowd might prove a whole lot worse than being injured.
Rather than trying to find a hotel where few decent ones existed, I hit on the idea of doing what long-distance drivers do: use dhabas. These truck stops are roadside restaurants that provide a place to wash, a hot meal and a chance for a few hours’ rest on charpoys (simple, free beds, fashioned from strips of rubber tyre stretched across a frame).
For less than a dollar, I could buy a meal of bright yellow dhal, raw turnips, tomatoes, freshly made rotis (cooked in a clay oven), and a mountain of rice, all washed down with a tin mug of hot sweet tea. I carried my own plate and utensils in the hope of minimising the chances of dysentery.
The downside to dhabas: blaring horns, flashing lights and the constant hubbub of vehicles arriving and departing. No chance of a peaceful kip or of privacy, with locals peering unabashedly as I undressed. Only when squatting over the long drop — like a cat having a crap in a flowerpot — was I without an audience. And I had to remember to take my own paper.
The owner of one truck stop insisted on shouting me a few glasses of Finnish vodka that he’d scored on the blackmarket. Loath to offend, I accepted. Three hours later, I staggered to my charpoy and passed out. I’m not a drinker at the best of times, and the combination of vodka and yet another hard day on the bike had left me a goner.
Next morning I woke feeling as if I’d spent the night in a blender. I tried not to move my head any more than necessary as I nibbled on one of my last muesli bars. I couldn’t face the thought of a curry breakfast. I donned freshly laundered, but still-damp thermals, which hugged my scrawny frame, and, even before I hit the tarmac, I knew it was going to be a cold, prickly ride, made worse by a throbbing hangover.
Eventually, I was in Agra where Lynne was due to meet me. It seemed so much longer than the 10 days since I had last seen her, and we had a great many amusing tales to share.
Lynne recounted her harrowing experience when catching the train from Delhi. Indian Rail, offering online bookings and boasting a fast and efficient service for six billion passengers annually, got her approving nod — until she turned up at Delhi station and found it bursting at the seams.
Gingerly, she stepped over prone figures amid luggage and assorted boxes. Dodging porters stooped under the weight of over-sized trolleys, she peered around looking for something recognisable. Urgency was in the air, everyone was on a mission: food sellers, beggars, businessmen, touts… For a lone foreigner in her granny years it was a daunting moment.
She searched for her name on the passenger lists on each carriage. When a self-assured individual strode from the booking office to render assistance, she showed him her ticket.
‘This is no good,’ he said shaking his head. ‘You need to have your ticket authorised. This happens when tourists buy online. It’s a scam. They don’t add your name unless your ticket is approved.’
Clearing a path towards the exit, he urged: ‘This way, quickly. It will only take us a few minutes to get to the administration office to have the ticket stamped, then I can help you get on the train.’
Lynne
