The threat of India has hung as heavy as a black cloud over my entire journey. Before I started, I was well aware of the variety of difficulties I could expect to encounter, including sickness. The years I lived in Thailand and the time I spent in India were like day and night. It was my father who loved India. He dragged his first wife and two kids to the subcontinent, where he launched his first successful radio show, had a third kid, and then abandoned them there. A few years later, when I was eight, he dragged me to India, deposited me in the cult’s boarding school, and left me there while he went off to pursue his latest love affair in another commune.
I remember doing exercises in the courtyard with twenty other children one afternoon when the doorbell suddenly rang. One of our teachers went to the gate to see who it was, spoke briefly with whoever was on the other side, and came back shaking his head and laughing. “A rich Indian couple,” he told the other teacher. “They thought this was an orphanage and wanted to adopt one of the children.” All I could think was Take me! Please take me! By then it had been so long since I had seen my mother and so rarely did I see my father that I truly felt I was an orphan.
The next time my father packed me off to India, I was an angry, disappointed thirteen-year-old who had committed the unthinkable crime of saying I wanted to leave the Children of God. His solution was to send me away for “retraining,” in a bid to break my rebellious spirit. I fell desperately ill with fever and diarrhea not long after arriving at the commune in Mumbai. Since the cult believed physical ailments had a direct connection to spiritual malady, they took my illness as a sure sign that I needed curing and proceeded to go about it as soon as I could eat again. After many confessions and exorcisms, I was put on permanent enforced silence. I was made to clean, cook, and wander the streets under the relentless sun for ten hours a day, selling the cult’s tapes, videos, and literature. I left four months later, angrier and more rebellious than ever.
Perhaps these memories have tainted my perception of India, but of all the countries I lived in throughout my childhood, it is the only one I never wanted to visit again. To me, it has always been a place of unnecessary filth, disease, and ignorance, overwhelming stench, great disparity between the castes, and misogyny that manifests itself most alarmingly in the high rape statistics. A place where human life holds less value than that of cows, which are deified. When people I meet in Europe sigh and use terms such as “deep” and “spiritual” when describing their life-changing journeys through the country, I remain silent. I cannot believe that true spiritual enlightenment would ever include such dismal side-effects.
It has been only four days, and my deeply pessimistic expectations for this part of my trip have already been exceeded. With another ten days to go before I reach Mumbai, I shudder to think what else might possibly go wrong.
OCTOBER 28, 2012
Though I’m still weak, the course of antibiotics I packed in my medicine bag has worked miracles. The fever burned itself out during the night, and since resting a second day is not an option, I pack up and leave Bhubaneshwar, heading southwest toward Brahmapur.
Cycling alone through India is nerve-racking in itself. Never mind the heat, the chaotic traffic, the potholes, and the sickness. My bike draws attention. As a lone foreign woman, I draw attention. As a lone foreign woman riding a bicycle, Pegasus and I draw crowds of circus-freak-show proportions. Every time I stop, be it in the middle of a town or the middle of nowhere, within seconds I’m mobbed by hordes of silent, staring men. It’s disquieting at best. In one town where I stop for lunch, the mob around me grows so thick I can’t move, and the police have to break through with batons to disperse them.
OCTOBER 29, 2012
Today, sick, hot, tired, and surrounded by yet another jostling mob, I finally snap. I need directions to the next town, and nobody will answer my persistent inquiries. All they do is stare until the tension in the air is palpable. Hemmed in on all sides, with the crowd pushing against me and Pegasus, I feel as panicky as a caged animal. My response is to start acting like one. I shout and wave my arms around in a fairly accurate imitation of a crazy monkey. No one can understand what I’m saying, but I can see the surprise and uncertainty on their faces. I push my bike through the horde, and they part for me to pass. Nobody follows.
For the second time in my journey, I feel extremely unsafe. Even while pedaling, I am often followed for dozens of miles by men on motorcycles. At first I tried to ignore them completely, putting my earphones into my ears and pretending I couldn’t hear their rude remarks. This hardly deterred them though; in fact, it appeared to spur them on. Finally I realized that it works better to act aggressive, so now I shout loudly and even maniacally, threatening motorbike stalkers with a raised fist. First they laugh, but then they look worried and eventually ride off as my gestures inevitably attract the curiosity of bystanders and passing motorists. Acting big and bold can attract the wrong kind of attention, but when used at the right times, it can be a highly effective weapon in a lone female’s arsenal.
Antonio hears my anxiety whenever he calls—as long as I pick up. Often I don’t answer, as replying would mean stopping, something I try to avoid at all costs, especially in highly populated areas. Flashing my iPhone to an audience would be reckless. Naturally he is becoming concerned.
“Ju, Nicola is coming down there to find you,” he tells me when I finally pull over to answer one call. “Wait till he arrives.” Nicola is a mutual friend from Naples, a jack-of-all-trades who is useful to have around in just about any situation.
“What? No. I’m okay, really.”
“You are not okay. This is the first time I’ve ever heard you so nervous over the phone. Nicola will follow you for the next week. He can reach you in a couple of days.”
“I’m not waiting for a couple of days. I’ll keep going.”
“Okay. But stop if you feel unsafe.”
Unsafe or not, stopping is not an option. Never.
NOVEMBER 2, 2012
It’s three days before Nicola finds me on the road. His car has had more flats than my bike. The poor guy has never been to India before, or to any other developing country for that matter. He’s more shaken than I am when he finally reaches me, and he hugs me like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. I suspect he’s never been more happy to see a familiar face.
“I don’t know how you are cycling here!” he comments in Italian. “Just driving on these roads is traumatizing. I know I don’t speak English very well, but nobody understands anything I say here. They all just nod their heads like they understand, then do the opposite.”
I have to laugh. The physical discomforts of grime, hunger, and sickness are easier to endure when you can joke about them with someone else. I’ve grown used to managing alone, but having Nicola nearby for a few days will help take the edge off this Indian ordeal, at least mentally. Physically it’s not getting any easier.
A typhoon has just hit my route down the southeast coast toward Chennai. The strong winds and heavy rain are making it difficult to see the road, especially the potholes. After changing another burst tube, I continue more cautiously, which slows my progress considerably, but at least the bad weather means there are fewer people and motorcycles on the road.
I wrap my saddlebag in multiple plastic bags in an attempt to keep out the wet, but by the time I stop for the day, everything is drenched and covered in mud and human excrement. The concept of public toilets has not yet caught on in most of India. Morning and evening, villagers simply squat along the main road with a bucket of water to do their business. This, mixed with mud and garbage, more or less covers Pegasus and me from head to toe at the end of every day. It takes more than an hour to clean myself and the bike, and the shower floor is covered with a thick layer of muck by the time I’ve finished. Nothing is ever dry by the morning, but that hardly matters, since everything will be soaked again long before midday.
As a result of all this, my clothes and gear have begun to stink terribly
. My immune system is weak from the incessant diarrhea and bad nutrition. My stomach cannot handle the heavy spices of the local food, and it’s almost impossible to find anything plain. I am eating less each day and losing weight. I have picked up a chest infection, and my throat is sore from the constant wet and wind. In short, I am feeling pretty miserable right now.
It always seems worst at night, at the end of a long day on the road, failing to find food I can keep down, watching roaches climbing up the walls of my four-dollar-a-night hotel room. Morning always brings fresh courage. I steel my mind and tell myself everything is temporary. This is a test of endurance, and it’s true what they say: you’re always stronger than you think. I have gotten this far. What is another week, or even another couple of months?
I embarked on this journey knowing there would be moments when I would question the whole thing and my motives for doing it, when I would think the hardship and struggle outweighed the good times. The Facebook updates show only the highlights—exciting snapshots of interesting or beautiful moments. But cycling the world also involves long periods of tedium, exhaustion, and dealing with recurring problems daily.
Every great challenge changes you in some way. Without the usual comfort and safety of a familiar environment, the support of family and friends, I can rely on no one and nothing but myself. Forced to tap into my own inner reserves of strength, I am finding out what I am capable of enduring, both physically and mentally.
NOVEMBER 5, 2012
The typhoon is showing no signs of letting up, so Antonio suggests cutting my route down the coast to Chennai and heading inland toward Hyderabad instead. After four days of continuous rain, the sun is finally breaking through the clouds. I can certainly benefit from some drying out.
The middle of southern India is less populated, with beautiful, verdant countryside. Farmers drive herds of cows, with their horns painted in bright blues and oranges. Groups of women in colorful saris chat and laugh as they stroll down the dusty roads, children in tow. Everyone seems less aggressive. I get more smiles and waves, and fewer crowds mobbing me. I am starting to relax and enjoy the ride.
The farther west I go, the more Western the population becomes in terms of both behavior and dress. I come upon the first McDonald’s I have seen since arriving in India, and while I’m normally that franchise’s greatest detractor, for once I’m actually glad to see the giant yellow M towering above the smog. Hopeful I will find some food that isn’t drowned in spices, I park Pegasus against the window, next to a life-size Ronald McDonald with a red goatee, so I can keep an eye on him from inside.
The restaurant has air-conditioning and free wi-fi. Groups of wealthy teenagers are gossiping, ribbing each other, and generally making a ruckus. Girls dressed in pastel-colored salwar kameezes, thickly braided hair looped around their ears or hanging past their waists, are sipping milkshakes, giggling, and teasing the downy-faced youths at a nearby table. It could be an after-school scene anywhere in the world, but after ten days of dilapidated cities and rural villages steeped in abject poverty, the contrast is jarring.
I order a chicken burger, which comes marinated in chilies and spices. Hope deferred. I guess even McDonald’s is adaptable. No matter. Much of the world lives on plain rice, and so can I.
NOVEMBER 8, 2012
Mumbai airport at last! The final challenge is to find—or fashion—a bike box for Pegasus. Unlike every other country I have visited, people don’t simply dispose of boxes in India, so I am unlikely to find a free one. In the end I stumble across a shop in the slums near the airport that sells secondhand cardboard boxes. The dirty walls of the small room are covered from floor to ceiling with stacks of flattened ones. I buy ten of the biggest and from them construct one giant box with the help of three rolls of packing tape. It’s not pretty, but it doesn’t need to be. It just has to hold together for the length of the flight—over Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran (three countries I could not pass through as a lone woman) and on to Turkey.
Nicola will be flying back to Italy tomorrow, so we have a last dinner of barbecued meat together before parting company. “In bocca al lupo.” He kisses me on both cheeks and gives me a hug. “See you back in Napoli soon.”
A long line of passengers are waiting to enter the airport. To get into the building, we all have to show our passports and our tickets. I flash the electronic ticket on my smartphone and am told this is unacceptable. Apparently I have to present a printout.
“Sorry, but how do I get my flight?” I ask the surly official who is barking orders at other frustrated passengers.
“Madam, you must wait till the check-in opens. Then someone from the airline will print your ticket and escort you inside.”
I was hoping to catch a bit of sleep on a row of chairs somewhere inside the building. It’s eleven-thirty p.m. Check-in for my flight won’t open for another two hours.
“So what do I do now?” My irritation closely mirrors the official’s.
“Go to the waiting lounge,” he orders me.
“Great. Where’s that?”
“At the end of the building, past all the entrances.”
I follow his instructions and wheel the mummified Pegasus to the very end of the terminal. The waiting lounge turns out to be simply where the road ends. People and their trolleys, piled high with luggage, litter the pavement. So much for my hopes of a comfy seat. I’m still in India, lest I forget. It isn’t over till it’s over. I find an empty patch of pavement and sit against the wall to wait with everyone else. A couple in front of me picnics on a dal and chapatti dinner. Families socialize. Chai wallahs circulate with hot pots of sweet spiced tea. Groups of soldiers pass back and forth with sniffer dogs on leashes.
I doze with one hand, as always, on my bike.
TURKISH DELIGHTS
NOVEMBER 10, 2012
Smooth riding welcome! Good, cheap food in giant portions welcome! Turkey welcome! In my first day here, the Turkish people have been so welcoming and so far removed from the comments posted on Facebook by friends and followers who are concerned for my safety. I’m baffled why anyone would think that women cannot travel safely on their own in Turkey.
I landed at a rainy Ankara airport yesterday afternoon and decided to spend the night at a nearby hotel and make an early start this morning. It’s still pouring buckets when I get up at seven a.m., but that is hardly an excuse to stay in bed, and wishing it were won’t make it so.
I lost four and a half pounds in India, and I’m feeling as emaciated as I look. To make up for two weeks of culinary deprivation, I go food crazy. The hotel breakfast is an unexpected delight: soup, a platter of cheese, fresh vegetables, olives, hummus, eggs and pickles, honey, and hot bread. Turkey shares its Mediterranean neighbors’ climate, which must contribute to the excellence of the food. The tomatoes are sweet, the olives large and fleshy, the fresh herbs abundant, and the variety of goat cheese extensive. I am tempted to stop at every chance to eat again.
The cold and rain make riding difficult. The roads are turning into rivers, and it is impossible to see the potholes. I hit a huge drain hole riding out of Ankara. Both my water bottles go flying into the speeding traffic, and it is impossible to retrieve them. It is a small miracle my front rim hasn’t buckled. A purple lump soon balloons where my shin smashed against the pedal. By the time I reach the southern outskirts of the city, I am drenched; the cold has crept deep into my core, and my insides are like ice. There is only one thing to do—beat a retreat to the nearest restaurant for a second breakfast.
I pull off my dripping gloves, pop them onto a nearby heater to dry, and head to the bathroom to change my wet socks. A strange burning smell greets me when I return to the table; smoke is funneling up from under my gloves. The waiter notices it too and points frantically to the heater. I tear them off quickly, but the damage has been done. My gloves have been burned to a crisp, with giant holes splitting the fabric. Great going, Juliana. Real clever.
No use crying over spilt milk. A
tasty spread in a toasty restaurant makes the loss of my gloves easier to swallow. It also makes it that much harder to leave. I drag myself—inwardly kicking and screaming—back into the wind and rain. As Hendri used to say whenever he was suffering through a particularly difficult day on an expedition, “Make it harder!”
NOVEMBER 11, 2012
Unlike the Turkish people, Turkish dogs are decidedly unfriendly. Let me rephrase that: they are terror-inspiring lions with big jaws and even bigger appetites. I look over my shoulder to see a pack of fifteen of the massive, white, wild variety heading straight toward me from half a mile away, racing up the hill, fangs bared and hungry.
“Fuuuuu . . .” I cry in panic, before all I can manage is desperate, heavy breathing.
There is nothing like a dog chase to pump the adrenaline. Pedaling uphill in frantic fear of life and limb, I feel like a hunted rabbit with an exploding heart. I have no doubt that the dogs see me as nothing more than a giant steak on wheels. They close in with strategic wolf-pack coordination. Some run on ahead, presumably with the intention of grabbing my front wheel; the rest circle on all sides. Death by dog is not how I imagined I would go. Keep pedaling, goddammit!
At that moment a loud horn blasts close behind me, and I turn to see a car racing down the middle of the pack. One dog squeals as the car crunches into it, and the rest leap out of the way. I pedal into the center of the road, and the driver pulls up alongside, effectively creating a barrier between me and the dogs. He keeps his hand on the horn the entire time. The dogs continue to bark and snap. I crest the hill, accelerate to a heady speed on the descent, and watch the pack fall back as they realize the chase is futile. I will live to cycle another day. The driver waves and drives on. I give him a thumbs-up. Thank God for road angels.
This Road I Ride Page 14