Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle Read online

Devendra and I thanked his aunt for lunch, said goodbye and then headed for the caves. We walked through a parched paddock that housed a number of families in tarpaulin shacks. Women, dark as chocolate, stared out expressionless while others hid their faces as we passed. A thick smell wafted off the hot bare hills.

  ‘Look out for the drops,’ warned Devendra.

  He pointed to a fat brown shape the size of a rat. They were everywhere, dotting the hills like full stops on a page.

  ‘Much shitting here in India,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘These are simple people.’

  ‘Well … where else would they go?’

  Then for some reason, Devendra steered the conversation to where I least expected it.

  ‘Western women … will they dominate me when they are wanting the sex?’

  ‘Dominate? Hmm,’ I didn’t know what to say and said, really, the wrong thing. ‘No, you have to pay more for that …’ I joked as I skipped over a brown lump.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘No. No, they won’t.’

  ‘If I don’t like her but she wants sex with me because she has drinks, what should I do? Will she be angry with me or make problem for me?’

  I couldn’t believe it. Here I was lecturing an Indian teenager about female domination in a minefield of shit! Where was he getting this from?

  Most likely the Internet.

  Internet cafés, to my surprise, were in most parts of India, sometimes even the smallest of towns. Thus, access to hard core pornography was freely available to anyone anytime and often I would see groups of grinning young men in Internet cafés around one terminal screen in awkward aroused silence. One man, embarrassed by my disapproving looks, said, hand in the air, somewhat desperately, ‘It is only … for the knowledge!’

  It was no wonder that sex was often asked about by most men I met in India, sometimes within minutes of meeting them: ‘Much fucking in the West, isn’t it?’ which had me retorting with, ‘Actually, I think there’s much more fucking in India. You’re the ones with over a billion people!’

  ‘Devendra. You’re getting a little ahead of yourself.’

  He returned a confused stare.

  After climbing a small hill, we arrived at the Pandav Lena Caves. Devendra pointed to a large cavern about the size of a garage; unlike the others, it was bare of carvings and statues.

  ‘It is for the elephants,’ he explained.

  In another cave, a solemn-looking Buddha sat serenely, left hand cast to the side, rolled locks crawling up his skull like a cluster of grapes. The caves, built to house monks, dated back to the first century when Buddhism was flourishing. However, the only thing flourishing here at the time of my visit was the smell of damp urine from bats.

  It wasn’t particularly ornamental, a feature perhaps in keeping with some of the philosophies of Buddhism: its non-attachment to world objects, its bare asceticism.

  This of course made staring at the caves about as exciting as, well … staring at a hole in the wall. We sat on a rock by a eucalyptus tree listening to the insects buzzing in the dry afternoon heat, and watching clusters of auto-rickshaws screaming past each other in the wide city streets of Nasik.

  On another rock, local women were placing flowers by a carving of a dancing figure.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I asked Devendra.

  ‘Making prayers.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Could you ask them?’

  ‘No. I don’t know their language,’ he said with an air of indifference. I wasn’t sure whether he simply didn’t want to talk to them or he really didn’t know their language. After all, there are over 18 official languages in India, not to mention hundreds of dialects. The women looked up, aware that we were talking about them. I smiled but they shyly turned away.

  ‘I think it is time to go,’ said Devendra. The light was beginning to fade. ‘My auntie will worry.’

  Devendra took me to a hotel. The manager led the way upstairs and opened the door to a room with boils. Yellow paint bubbled and popped across the wall while a cracked window pointed to the ensuite with a big, dirty wall fan turning listlessly. Rank water sat in the squat toilet.

  ‘One hundred and fifty rupees,’ the manager said.

  ‘A hundred.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One ten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’ So much for my bartering skills.

  Devendra and I looked around for the switch for the overhead fan and found ourselves staring at a panel of buttons, the envy of a 747 cockpit (this was a common feature of hotels in rural India). Devendra hit every one of them; none worked. I don’t know why there were so many switches; there were only two things we could possibly turn on: the fan and a naked light bulb. (When the generator kicked in later that night, I woke with a start to find myself with wind gushing in my face and the night suddenly day).

  Devendra helped me lug the bike and bags up the stairs and then, as quickly as he had arrived, was gone. I felt suddenly alone. It had been a week since I had really spent any time talking to someone and now his company had vanished like the days behind me.

  ***

  In the morning I was inordinately tired. My body creaked. My eyes hurt. I had spent most of the night in a frustrated rage fighting off mosquitoes that burgled their way through my net.

  The next town, some distance away, was Yeoli, a tiny dot on my map just before a slightly bigger dot representing the city of Aurangabad, known for its Taj Mahal imitation, the Bibi Ka Maqbara. Yeoli was only 80 kilometres away but in cycle terms, it was a good day’s ride. My guidebook, however, gave me few clues (Yeoli wasn’t even listed), so I decided to stock up on bottled water, and spent all morning fighting the bluey haze of Nasik trying to find some.

  For environmental reasons, I wasn’t overly hip to the idea of buying countless plastic bottles, but I didn’t have much choice. Ground water in rural areas had been contaminated by the over-use of pesticides and heavy industry, and in some parts of India, such as Uttar Pradesh, nearly 70 per cent of the population lacked access to safe drinking water.

  In a ramshackle store, I came across rows of bottled water that were out of date, unsealed and ringed with dust. Most Indians can barely afford to buy bottled water, and at 15 rupees a throw, it was more than I was prepared to pay. I went to another store.

  ‘Water?’

  The assistant looked confused. ‘Water?’

  ‘Water. Pani.’

  ‘Oh, water! Yes!’

  ‘How much?’

  He went off to consult with his boss then came back.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘It’s ten everywhere else.’

  ‘No. Fifteen.’

  As the morning was getting on, I gave in. ‘All right. I’ll take two.’

  ‘No. Fifteen.’

  ‘Yes. Fifteen. I’ll take two.’

  ‘No two. Fifteen.’

  ‘Yes! Fifteen! I want two.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Moment.’ He went off behind the counter and consulted his boss. A crowd began to gather round me. He came back.

  ‘I am sorry. Fifteen.’

  ‘Wait a minute …’ I thrust 30 rupees in his hand and made a two-finger gesture.

  ‘Ah! Two!’ He pulled two bottles of cold water out of the fridge and plopped them down, to the applause of the crowd.

  As I put on my helmet, a man, late 50s, dark, torn shirt and big potbelly held out his hand.

  ‘Baksheesh.’

  I waved him off but as I did I stepped in a big pile of poo – and the worst kind, human, by the smell of it. The beggar boomed a big baritone laugh.

  ‘I bet you’re thinking “fate, mate”,’ I smiled. He raised his eyebrows and laughed again. I shook the shit off and squelched the cycle shoe cleat into the bindings, bits of soft brownness flying off as I pedalled toward Yeoli. Disgusting, no?

  ***

  ‘Everywhere is different in Ind
ia,’ Deejay had said to me on the plane. ‘Different culture, different language, different looks.’

  I thought of this now as I cycled the rural plains of Maharashtra. The people became darker, shorter, thinner, eyes more deeply set. The fierce sun, it seemed, had dried the people out as well as the countryside. The sparsely vegetated forest floor was bare of any ground litter, picked and stripped for firewood. It was hard to imagine that this area was once a rich, lush forest. Most of India’s forests are now just tiny green freckles on the national map.

  I stopped at a crossroads to ask directions from an old man sitting on his haunches and sporting a Nehru style pillbox hat.

  I pointed to the left. ‘Yeoli?’

  He wobbled his head. I pointed to the road on the right. ‘Yeoli?’

  More wobbles so I tried saying it in Hindi. ‘Daein (right) or baein (left).’

  He smiled. Arms crossed, I pointed in opposite directions at the same time. More wobbles. Finally, somewhat frustrated, I raised my voice. ‘“This way!?” or “That way?!”’

  ‘That way!’ he pointed to the left, suddenly standing up. ‘You go that way then take the first roundabout and go straight!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’

  He wobbled his head.

  At lunch time I stopped at a dhaba (restaurant), which was really just a shack with plastic white chairs. While the cook worked a big pan over a kerosene burner that sounded like that of a fighter jet taking off, eggs bubbled and popped, a war of oil and yolk. An assistant took orders in the hot chaos while the cook threw dolas (fried potatoes) into a big pan of green oil. I ordered some eggs and sat down.

  ‘Hello, my friend. Which country?’ I turned around to see a group of well-dressed men passing around a small bottle of whisky. A portly man wearing stylish glasses offered me a swig but I declined.

  ‘Australia.’

  ‘Ah! Cricket. Shane Warne. Very good.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really follow it.’ I mean, really? How could anyone? ‘And here comes Ricky Ponting in for the bat … and yet again nothing has happened, ladies and gentlemen. Surprise, surprise, surprise …’

  ‘You don’t? Here it is another religion! We are off to a wedding. You must come and join us.’

  I declined, pointing to the bike.

  ‘No, really. I prefer to cycle.’

  ‘You are bi-cycling India?’

  ‘Yes, both ways.’ I turned around to see a hedge of eyes bearing down on me. When I sat down to eat the crowd of men followed, sat down within a foot of me and gawked at every move I made.

  ‘Namaste,’ I said, smiling. No return hellos or smiles. Just more stares.

  ‘They are thinking you are a movie star,’ the man with the glasses said. ‘They are very curious about you.’

  ‘Ah …’

  I was no stranger to being the stranger, being stared at in a strange land. In Zimbabwe, I had woken one morning to see the whole village outside my tent. They, however, had said hello and kept a reasonable distance. But in India, staring was in a league of its own. It was naked, expressionless, up close and personal. It was like I had told a really bad joke and they were waiting for me to explain it.

  I must admit that I did give the locals at least some small cause for wonder. I was wearing a long-sleeved yellow cycling shirt, blue cycling gloves, baggy shorts and cycling shoes. To cap it off, I was wearing a silver helmet, wrap-around sunglasses and my sarong spun around my bald head and neck. I wasn’t exactly Incognito Man.

  ‘So,’ I said to the man with glasses, still feeling hungry. ‘What’s good to eat here?’

  ‘All is good. But I will order you something that is not spicy,’ he said, and then broke off to explain to the waiter. He slapped me on the back. ‘Bye, bye.’

  The troupe of wedding drinkers jumped into their Jeep and sped off. Shortly afterwards my lunch arrived. Roti, a side order of onions and tomatoes, and a peculiar green dish with cottage cheese called palak paneer. I broke off some roti, dipped it in the paneer and bit into it.

  I screamed.

  ‘This ISN’T HOT?’ I gasped and downed a glass of unbottled water. I stood up and paced up and down the restaurant, waving my hand in front of my mouth. ‘JESUS CHRIST! HOT! HOT! ARRRGHH!’

  By the time I got to my bike, another crowd was happily snapping the gear levers back and forth, pointing at the multiple cogs, punching the tyres and playing with the zips on the bags.

  I took off, clanking and crunching the chain, curious hands having reset the gears. It wasn’t long before their withered frames shimmered and then vanished in the bleaching heat behind me.

  ***

  I arrived at Aurangabad the next day, the largest city I’d seen since leaving Mumbai, and the following morning I went for a ride up to the Bibi-Ka-Maqbara mausoleum, a copy of the famous Taj Mahal. Completed in 1678 it was originally intended to rival the Taj but lack of resources rendered it a pale comparison.

  It had recently been made a World Heritage site and because of this the Indian Tourist Commission now charged tourists entry fees from $US5 or even $US10 to all World Heritage sites, a fact not lost on the ticket seller.

  ‘Indian people five rupees (US 10c), foreigners $5 US dollars,’ he said, enjoying the disparity way too much.

  ‘But I’m Indian,’ I joked. ‘I know I look white but really, my father was a Punjabi. You may have heard of him: “Mr Singh”.’

  ‘You are a white man. Foreigner,’ he said contemptuously.

  ‘I–I’ve been out of the country for a while.’

  ‘It is $5 US dollars!’ he spat.

  It was a small amount of money but now I didn’t want to give my money to this man.

  ‘I’ll show you, sunshine.’ I cycled to the rear of the mausoleum and thought I’d climb the wall! But as I leaned the bike on a barbed wire fence I heard a hissing sound.

  ‘Cobra?’

  I looked down. Sticking out from the front tyre was a huge thorn. I’d parked the bike right on to a thorn bush. I didn’t have my pump nor my puncture repair kit with me so I jumped on the bike, tore down the hill desperately in search of a bike shop. I found the next best thing: an old, grey stubbled man sitting on a stool in the doorway of another shop surrounded by twisted loops of bicycle tubes. He smiled a toothless grin and adjusted his topi (Muslim cap). He was a puncture repair wallah.

  For five rupees (10c US) the old man took out the tube like a hardened snake handler, buffed it with sandpaper, smeared a huge wad of glue on the hole and then with an equally sized patch, squeezed it together, then whacked the pair with a mallet over the handle of a screwdriver and with such ferocity that I thought he’d cause another puncture.

  As I was to discover, there were thousands of these puncture repair wallahs dotting the roads throughout India. They were ever so helpful and I used them so often that after a while I started to refer to them as the I.R.A., not in that Gerry Adams kind of way (well, they both blew things up), but rather as ‘Indian Roadside Assist’.

  All repaired and pumped up I rode back to the rear of the Bibi-Ka Maqbara and thought I’d get a photo before climbing the wall again. Surrounded by goats and boys squatting their lunch out, I lined up the perfect shot when I clicked the frame over and the film started rewinding! So, I headed down the hill again, got another roll of film, set the bike up for a National Geographic pose when I went over another bloody thorn!

  Defeated and deflated, I wheeled the bike around to the main entrance.

  ‘Ah, you are back?’ said the ticket seller, pleased with himself.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I handed over the money and then under my breath, ‘bloody karma.’

  4

  AURANGABAD – KHANDWA

  Mid-January

  ‘After many years of torture, he finally asked for the curd. He took it and his head exploded.’

  ‘Exploded?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was the curd … off?’

  ‘It was poisonous! Come.’ />
  Mesmerised by the story and also the tufts of black hair sprouting from my guide’s ears, I followed as he walked further into the fortress of Daulatabad, a short ride from Aurangabad.

  The lethal-yoghurt victim I had been hearing about was Abdul Hasan Tana Shah, the last Galconda ruler, who was imprisoned for 13 years in the late 17th century by the Moghul emperor Aurangzeb. Abdul Hasan Tana Shah’s headless corpse was dragged behind an elephant to Rauza before being entombed.

  Built in the 12th century by Raja Bhillamraj, Daulatabad is a fortress carved out of a cliff face. But the fortress wasn’t known merely for this natural geological feature: it was infamous for its array of booby traps, moats, unclimbable walls and sheer sadistic ingenuity. It was the whispered talk of soldiers’ nightmares, a veritable hell, and was thought for many years to be impregnable until the Sultan of Delhi invaded it in 1308. Even today it seems an impossible accomplishment, and I was mindful of this as my guide led me past two huge doors with long horizontal spikes.

  ‘These are to stop elephants charging,’ said the guide. ‘But the enemy is thinking it is possible to get in, so they sacrifice camels onto the spikes. But once past here they have two doors; one big one and a smaller one. Of course, the enemy thinks that he must take the bigger one, as surely this is the way into the city. But no, my friend. It is a trap. It is a dead end and men with hot oil lay in wait for them. Notice the path as we go? It is staggered in steps and turns so that the elephant cannot get a run up.’

  We continued on and he directed me onto a shaky ladder leading up a turret. He remained on the ground and called up to me.

  ‘You see the cannon? See how beautifully carved it is? It is the Kila Shikan. You see that the cannon can only be moved 180 degrees. This is so that if it were captured it could not be turned and used on the palace. They think of everything!’

  Down a small tunnel, a torchbearer led the way over steps.

  ‘If they got past the gates and the cannon and the hot oil and then went down into these caves, they would find themselves impaled on spikes laid on the steps.’

  He said something to the torchbearer, who then blew out the light, leaving us in complete darkness.