when the man began negotiating a fare with a taxi driver. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere,’ she objected — and was ignored.
Whack. The startled taxi driver held his hand to his face, and the rogue, feigning shock at the price, appeared to be playing the role of Sir Galahad. The two were in collusion, Lynne realised, so she turned on her heel and hurried back towards the platform.
‘What are you doing?’ the man barked, grabbing her arm. ‘You’re wasting time and I’m trying to help you.’
Lynne shook him off angrily, her heart pounding as she fought through the crush, hoping the train hadn’t already left. The devil was hot on her heels, anxious that his meal ticket shouldn’t disappear. ‘Here it is, madam, your carriage!’ he shouted triumphantly, standing in the exact same spot they’d met earlier. ‘And here’s your name, Mrs Lin-ett-e Fellow-es.’
Just as the whistle blew, the brazen shyster grabbed her suitcase and leapt on board, shouldering his way down the aisle towards the allocated seat. Smugly, he stowed her suitcase and backpack and waited expectantly. Against her better judgement, Lynne handed him a 50-rupee note and sank into her seat, acutely aware of passengers’ watching eyes.
‘Well that was a novel way to get a porter to carry your bags,’ I laughed when she told me of her scare.
We later learned of other travellers’ experiences — possibly even with the same con artist — where they were told the tourist office had been bombed two weeks before so they needed to go in a rickshaw to buy tickets in the city centre!
As it turned out, a charming young fellow from Gujarat sat beside Lynne on the train and they spent the journey swapping tales and laughing. When the train pulled into the Agra station, Robin ensured Lynne was safely in a taxi before he made his way to his hotel for a meeting. Next day, he visited our home-stay and I was able to thank him in person for his chivalry.
We were at the Heritage Homestay, a very different experience from what I was growing accustomed to. Despite the somewhat dubious conditions at the hotels and dhabas, so far I’d always been well treated and had no complaints. My gear was never tampered with, and I could nod off after a hard day’s ride, dry and warm, feeling safe among genuinely hospitable people.
Even when the bike was surrounded by a polite mob of onlookers, they only fiddled with levers and the horn. So far nothing had been stolen. My age amazed everyone and, though only a few spoke English, we seemed to share a mutual understanding. Our host, Mr Singh, so wisely, put it this way: ‘Our dress code, language and culture might be different, but we all bleed the same colour.’
Later that evening, when I removed my boots, Lynne gasped and screwed up her nose: ‘What the hell has happened to your feet?’
I had started my journey wearing my sturdy pair of motorcycle boots with reinforced toecaps. In normal riding conditions, these would have been perfect. But, because of the bike’s extra height, I had to press my toes into the ground for extra stability when trying to stop in heavy traffic. This added pressure had caused the nails on my big toes to blacken and become inflamed.
‘Why not switch to open sandals when you’re not riding?’ Lynne suggested. ‘It could stave off infection.’ This made sense, but, hating shopping, I put her advice out of my mind. My main concern was the bike.
For the most part, it was running well, and the only problems had been minor. One worry was the amount of oil that leaked out of the exhaust-valve lifters. Oil, combined with dust and grime, coated my boots, pants, the bike and gearbags, making it difficult to keep anything clean. I did my best to set off each morning with clean gear, even if it only stayed that way for a few hours. I needed to devise a way to limit the amount of oil seepage.
Meanwhile, one of the ‘seven wonders of the world’ was beckoning. I’d hoped to take a photo of the FN in front of the Taj Mahal, but that wasn’t going to be possible. I was informed that no traffic was permitted beyond the outer gates. It was an initiative to minimise pollution damage to the monument, easy to understand in a city suffocating under a thick cloud of smog.
Lynne and I arrived early and joined the growing throng, eager to see the magnificent white marble shrine. Being in the presence of the Taj Mahal is as spellbinding as the architect had intended. Left and right, in front and back, global travellers posed for that once-in-a lifetime picture.
While we were setting up to frame a shot through one of the many arches, a quietly spoken gentleman in western dress approached and began what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel: ‘Sir and madam, I can show you the very best places to take your photographs. I have worked as a gardener here for the past 30 years and I know exactly where you should stand. Please, let me guide you.’
Lynne and I were dubious. We were keen to capture memorable images, but also wary that this might be another con. ‘My wife’s a photographer,’ I told him.
‘Yes she is, sir, and a very fine one too, but I can make her pictures even more beautiful — and for only a few rupees. I will share my knowledge with you, because you look like kind man. Here, stand right on this spot.’ He insisted. We obliged.
For the next half-hour, our professional guide and storyteller rushed us from one end of the long halls to the other, pointing out the best angles and checking to make sure we were following his instructions. Then, when our escort deemed the tour was over, he requested $30 for the service.
We gulped: ‘You said only a few rupees.’
‘I’m a poor man, look at my shoes,’ he complained.
‘But you’re hired as a gardener, right?’
‘Ah yes, but a more knowledgeable gardener is impossible to find.’
We’d barely settled on a fair price before our moonlighting friend left us and started wooing his next customer, a portly American with a very large camera. ‘Sir, please let me show you the very best places to take your photographs. I have worked as a gardener here for 30 years…’
7
A Comic Opera
‘Take my picture, please, mister, PLEASE.’
‘You buy, you buy, very cheap, only 500 rupees.’ One young voice after another called. ‘My family make, very precious. Okay, for you today, my first customer, only 100 rupees.’
Although I had to admire their persistence, it seemed wise to avoid eye contact with the horde of youngsters who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Since the recent acquisition of two spare tubes, the FN was now grossly overloaded, and I couldn’t take on anything else. (The tubes were not the right size, and their quality was questionable, but they could make a difference in an emergency.)
When the sightseeing was over, it was time to get down to business. Mr. Singh offered me the use of his engine-reconditioning shop to do repairs. These included inserting a small nail in the chain-adjuster clamp. This would give a better grip on the dovetail because the pedal gear frequently came loose. Rough roads had caused the brass ring on the horn bulb and light hinges to vibrate free. A strong hose clamp, though not an attractive fix, would do the job on the bulb horn; and a rubber hose over the tailpipe of the muffler would, I hoped, direct oil away from the rear tyre.
Unfortunately,
