Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle Page 16

  There are around five million sadhus in India, mostly men and made up of different sects. Their aim is to achieve enlightenment by focusing on the ‘higher reality’, and so they renounce worldly pleasures, cut ties with family and possessions, wear little or no clothing, and abstain from sex. (Some sadhus go to great lengths to achieve this last requirement by wearing steel chastity belts or a chain around the scrotum and penis.)

  A sign at our ashram warned against mingling with sadhus, claiming that a tourist had been murdered by one. I doubted this and saw the ‘warning’ as just another one of the ashram’s attempts to control their ‘inmates’ and steer them clear of indulging in hashish (which the sadhus openly smoked). I was told that this practice was part of their religion: Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, apparently smoked hashish, and he was reverently referred to as the ‘Lord of Hash’.

  We had dinner on a rooftop café and watched candles float down the Ganges River, their orange lights disappearing in the distance while women, some bare-breasted, bathed at the ghats (steps at the edges of the river).

  ‘We’ll be all right, Bec,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘We’ll make it work.’

  ***

  The ride out of Rishikesh was beautiful but hard, and we were thankful to be up on the undulating highlands, allowing us to avoid long, all-day climbs. Like the temperature, our tempers dropped. We weren’t being stared at by hordes of men anymore, and this made a huge difference to our peace of mind.

  The monsoonal clouds undressed the Himalayas; revealing green-forested breasts and terraced bottoms. In case we got too excited at such metaphors, a traffic sign warned us to contain ourselves:

  Laughing, we enjoyed a giddying descent but then faced another slow, arduous climb. As I pedalled I watched a pregnant woman softly whip the rump of a water buffalo.

  ‘Le, le, le, le!’ she urged it, but it ignored her and clomped lazily up the road, sometimes stopping to eat the long grass.

  Over the coming days we battled the numerous hills to Chambra and then, to our relief, coasted over quiet potholed roads through sal forests and green-terraced fields to the hill station of Mussorie. It was here we caught glimpses of the Himalayan snow ranges to the northeast, down the valley to Dehra Dunn and, somewhere beyond it, Haridwar where I’d been shaken down by the conductor and bus driver.

  Eventually, we rattled into Solan – a busy, noisy town pouring over the slopes like a giant cowpat. A festival was in full swing and thus crammed with tourists, cars, motorbikes, donkeys and trucks. Every hotel was full and expensive at 500–700 rupees ($US20). To add to our woes, ominous clouds curdled above us like a bruised face. A flicker of lightning, then the inevitable thump and growl of thunder echoed through the valley.

  ‘Better make it to that village,’ I urged Bec, pointing to a cluster of shacks at the bottom of a small valley. ‘Sounds like God is moving furniture again.’

  The rain came hard and fast, soaking us so quickly we hardly had a chance to put on our raincoats. Thick ochre coloured runnels washed mud and rocks on to the road and I became wary of landslides, common as they are at this time of year.

  The water from the road had turned the village into a brown lake. We pedalled through it, legs frothing the water like egg beaters, panniers dragging in our wake, the brown water coming right over our axles. I felt like a boy again and enjoyed seeing the bike create giant waves.

  Villagers sat up on plastic white tables in the flooded dhaba cheerily sipping chai, feet dangling in the water. We found an ‘island’ and ordered a chai. The chai wallah, up to his groin in water, fired up a pot of milk, unperturbed by his new aqua surroundings.

  ‘Oh!’ Bec groaned. Like the clouds above, Bec was dark and threatening. She wasn’t enjoying this wet business one bit. ‘It’s hard today.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s hard every day!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Stop saying, “I know!”’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Don’t you “Yes, dear” me, you patronising bastard!’

  ‘Sorry.’ I put on an Irish accent, trying to charm her. ‘Why don’t we find a hotel and have a nice hot shour for an hour.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Shour … shower!’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Or a place to camp.’

  ‘Oh, great!’ she moaned, her feet splashing back into the water. ‘Camping! Well, that’s just going to be a load of fun, isn’t it?’

  Bec’s mood was to be expected whatever the weather. Afternoons were her worst whereas mornings were mine. We often played opposites, one comforting the other. Or rejecting the other.

  Chai-ed up and slightly recovered, we peddle-paddled out of the flooded village and climbed into the hills, as the rain pelted us. Halfway up the climb, a spoke on Bec’s rear wheel broke.

  ‘Ah!’ she screamed. ‘You know why it didn’t work, Russell?’

  I was going to say because we were arguing again. (I’d replaced nearly half of the spokes so that gives you an idea of how many arguments we’d had). Instead I said, ‘Yes, yes,’ knowing what she was going to say, ‘“Because it’s made in India”’.

  It sounds harsh, but this maxim had proved to be true. Though I admired the willingness of Indians to fix anything, the issue was the bike wouldn’t stay fixed for long. Indian spokes broke frequently, tube valves shot out, tyre beads ripped under pressure and puncture patches popped (I ceased using the I.R.A for this reason).

  Light falling, I looked for a flat piece of ground in the valley below, hoping to find a place to pitch our tent. But the mountains were steep, forcing trees to cling desperately to their slopes. Around a bend, I spotted the last hotel I could see in the valley. I cycled up the drive past new Toyotas and Hondas. A Sikh family was having tea at a large table. I asked the manager if we could stay the night.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Full.’

  A grey-haired woman got up from the table of Sikhs and trundled over to me. Her name was Arti, and her warmth reminded me so much of my Nan that I wanted to cry into her soft, wrinkly hands.

  ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Solan. Before that, Nahan.’

  ‘Oh, my! That is so far. You must be very tired. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘That is heaven to my ears.’

  I explained to Arti that we had a tent and asked if she thought the hotel staff would mind if we set it up behind one of the rooms.

  ‘Oh, let me see what I can do. We have done them a big favour today. They cannot refuse us!’ She bustled off to see the manager and made grand remonstrations with her hands at him until the two of them smiled and laughed at each other.

  ‘There. It is done,’ she said as if casting a spell. ‘You can pitch your tent.’

  Arti turned to a tall, plump man who was hovering around our bikes. ‘This is my nephew, Vinnie, who has just come back from Melbourne.’

  He stuffed his chunky hand into mine.

  ‘I have many friends there,’ he said. He got out his black notebook and began listing names while looking for shimmers of recognition on our faces ‘Scott … Burwood? Jeremy … Bayswater?’

  He put the book away when I gave a blank look and rocked back on his feet while he watched us set up our tent. He then followed us into the hotel restaurant.

  ‘All the hills,’ he said, pointing outside as clouds mushroomed in the twilight, ‘were bare until the British came and planted trees. There were only grasses here before and there was much silting of the rivers. This hotel was a hill station like many you see around here. They were built for the British troops, as the generals found that after two years their troops would die. They would be stationed in Calcutta in their woollen uniforms in the heat and this would eventually kill them off. This hotel was a barracks to keep the troops in good health.’ He pouted, happy with his facts. ‘Actually, things were better under the British. Here is so corrupt. The minister
for Bihar has been accused of rape 52 times, yet they do noth–’

  ‘Are you talking nonsense again, Vinnie?’ It was Arti. She put her hand on his shoulder and eyed me. ‘He is out of step, stupid boy. We love him … well, most of us!’ she laughed.

  Vinnie’s face twisted. He adjusted a large bangle around his wrist, known as a kara.

  ‘You are Sikh,’ I asked, ‘but you don’t wear a turban?’

  ‘That is because Arti cut off all my hair!’

  Arti smiled. ‘Yes, we are all Sikhs but we do not bother with this turban business.’

  ‘Does that cause problems with other Sikhs?’

  ‘I don’t care if it does. We are who we are,’ she disappeared to get herself more tea. Ah, another class unto themselves, a bubble floating above the heads of the masses.

  Rebecca, pale with tiredness, yawned.

  ‘I’ll let you rest,’ Vinnie got up. ‘Tomorrow, I could give you a lift in my pick-up truck to Shimla if you like.’

  Later that night in the one-man tent, we lay together with hardly an inch to turn. It was hard enough when I had last tried it on my own in the desert of Rajasthan crammed with pannier bags around my ears. Now, we could barely move. Bec was hot, her body burning up with exhaustion. It began to rain lightly.

  ‘Ah, how nice,’ I whispered to Bec and we cuddled closer. Soon those light drops became heavy balls of water bouncing on the tent. This prompted me to recall bumping into a couple on the Annapurna Circuit who erupted with the oddest of coincidences.

  ‘I know the guy that sold you that tent and feels bad about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, there was a recall on it. Apparently it fails.’

  ‘Fails? Like how? Does it burst into flames? What?’

  ‘Dunno.’ They went back to stuffing their faces with apple pie.

  I soon felt the ‘fail’.

  ‘There’s water leaking in here!’ Bec said it as if it were my fault. ‘All down the side.’

  I splashed my toes in a growing puddle. The tent channelled water along the seams regardless of how I adjusted the guy ropes.

  It rained. All night. And we were wet. All night. All night long. We didn’t sleep a wink. When we crawled into the dawn, a puffy face beamed down into our soggy tent. ‘So, how about that lift to Shimla?’

  We all squashed inside the ute, bikes and bags loaded in the back, Vinnie excusing himself as he searched between my legs for the gearstick.

  ‘Hey, that’s not the gear stick!’ I joked. Vinnie laughed. Bec rolled her eyes.

  After the 20 kilometre windy drive up to Shimla, Vinnie arranged a room for us at the YMCA, a rambling old hotel overlooking the Himalayan valleys of Himachal Pradesh. Our room was large, and we draped our wet things everywhere we could: over the mantelpiece, the window skirting, light fittings; we spread the wet tent under the bed. The room soon stank like a wet dog.

  In the afternoon, Vinnie took us on a tour of Shimla (named after the god Shamla Devi). Set amongst pine and oak trees and located at over 2000 metres, it was by far the most British looking of cities I’d seen in India. Tudor-styled buildings, like the Shimla Town Hall, were common while The Gaiety Theatre (which still held plays) was more of a Gothic design. Not surprisingly, Shimla had once been the capital of India, or, rather, the summer capital for the British Raj since 1864.

  Every year trainloads of civil servants, soldiers and government officials would transfer their families and offices to the cooler, greener hills from the unbearable swelter of Calcutta. Now, bungalows and mansions for India’s nouveau riche dotted the valley as well as numerous cafés, restaurants, cinemas and shops.

  On the Mall, we passed a sign at an intersection which read ‘Scandal Corner’.

  ‘Why is it called Scandal Corner?’

  ‘Because people come here to gossip.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything and everything. That is why it is called “gossip”!’

  Actually, it had more to do with the fact that Shimla had once had a reputation for adultery. Many unattached soldiers (and women) during the British Raj would come to Shimla to escape the heat – and instead found torrid affairs. Thus Scandal Corner was a catch up point (though I found it odd that the council had wanted to advertise the fact).

  I noticed a family of rhesus monkeys on a nearby stone wall, grooming each other for fleas.

  ‘Don’t look at the monkeys!’ Vinnie warned. ‘They’ll attack you. They’re pests. They should have them taken away for animal experiments.’

  ‘What!’ Bec lit up. ‘You seriously want these monkeys harmed?’

  ‘They are a nuisance. They steal things, tear your clothes, spread rabies.’

  ‘Oh!’ Bec huffed and stormed off ahead of us.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Hanuman is your monkey god.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you revere Hanuman.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you say that most Indians hate monkeys.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why do you revere a monkey as a god if you hate monkeys?’

  ‘Hmm,’ he thought for a moment. ‘I don’t get it either!’

  At the Indian Coffee House, we sat among a crowded table of men wearing tweed jackets, smoking pipes and sipping coffee. Waiters flittered through the haze of smoke and thick laughter in their white uniforms and crimped crested caps. It didn’t look like much had changed since India’s independence. The posters were from the 1940s and most of the decor was from the same period. I liked the smell of the place – a lazy, relaxed smell harbouring dust and memories.

  ‘Things were much better when the British were here,’ Vinnie bemoaned again, then, looking around, I presumed for Arti, continued. ‘Things ran better. They had respect. They knew how to run the country. Not like Indians.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you prefer your own people ruling rather than a foreign power exploiting the country?’ I asked.

  ‘No! Most Indians would agree with me. The government is so corrupt. Nothing is maintained. Look at this place. It used to be a cantonment for the British Army. It is falling to pieces. People are selfish. They think only of themselves. Just look at the litter.’

  Vinnie’s distaste for Indian rule was surprising to me. But it wasn’t just him. Even the YMCA manager chimed in, telling us, ‘the reason there is no hot water is that the Indians leave the hot water tap open!’

  But it was spiritual leaders for whom Vinnie reserved a special distaste.

  ‘Gandhi was a Gujarati. He didn’t care what happened to us here in Himachal Pradesh. He was a spineless jellyfish. He concocted with Nehru to do away with the Muslims. We hate him in these parts.’

  ‘Oh. Then, what’s that doing here?’ I said, pointing to a picture of a benevolent Ghandi proudly hanging behind him.

  Vinnie grimaced. ‘It is a relic.’

  18

  SHIMLA – KINNAUR REGION

  June to July

  ‘Hi! Where’re you going? Where’re you going?’

  A thin woman, late 30s, wearing a yellow bandana, sunglasses and long shorts, slid her mountain bike to a halt in front of us.

  We were in the Kinnaur region (which had only recently been opened up to tourists), where the western Himalayas connect India to Chinese-occupied Tibet. Already we had travelled for five days, hoping to get to Tobo, where there was supposed to be the best-preserved Indo–Tibetan art in the world, then to Manali. This was according to two excitable Australians we had met in Shimla. What they had failed to tell us about was the veritable building site we would have to cycle through to get there.

  The Indian government and the World Bank had been building a hydroelectric dam for the past seven years, leaving a trail of gravel trucks, narrow dusty roads and cement factories. Colonies of French, Italian, British and German were perched and walled off next to shanty towns and decrepit villages. And now, with monsoonal rains turning the rocky banks to waterfalls of mud and eventually landslides, the chan
ces of completing our circuit seemed slim. And dangerous. During the previous year, seven bridges had been swept away, and the year before that an entire town, Wangtu, had been destroyed. The Indians blamed the Chinese for the catastrophe, citing an extra release of dam water, somewhere up there, in those bare hills above us.

  ‘Have you come from Sangla? It’s a hike up there, isn’t it?’ Her English Midlands accent was thick and elastic in my ears. She looked at my bike.

  ‘Christ! You’re carrying a lot of gear. What’ve you got in there?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘You should ride like me,’ she said and swung her head back in the direction of the two plump panniers on her bike. ‘I’ve been all through India with just this. That’s all you need. A pair of flip-flops, a shirt, a sleeping bag and a hammock. That’s it. Not all of THAT! Got any water?’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Bec and fumbled for her water bottle.

  ‘I’m so dehydrated! ’Ere. Know anything about bikes?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a shot –’

  ‘Can you fix my front wheel? I had a bingle on the way down from Gangotri. An old guy with a mallet mashed it back into shape but I got a problem with one spoke. The thread’s hanging out.’

  I began tightening the troublesome spoke.

  ‘I don’t bother carrying any tools myself. I let the Indians do it. They’re amazing with bikes. They can fix anything. Although …’ and then she went into great detail about how a number of bicycle mechanics had stripped the threads on her new pedal cranks, mashed a derailleur with an oversized chain link, and sold her tyres that exploded on braking.

  ‘When something breaks, I just get parts sent over. You don’t need all the latest crap, stuff you just don’t NEED.’ She threw another look at my bike.

  ‘Oh, I hate bicycle snobs, don’t you? This Irish knob says I’ve got to have Shimano XL speed whatsit, or a multi-tool that can flick heads off beers, or German tyres with the snake-belly double-ridge something-or-other—’ Her head snapped down at my wheels. ‘Ooh! Those tyres won’t stand up to this road!’