One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Indians are the most curious people yet. Within moments of stopping, mobs of inquisitive black-haired natives gather for a lengthy interrogation. “From which country are you?” “What is your good name sir?” Scooter riders flatter, “Your motorbike is looking very graceful today.” While testing the throttle and brakes, all the switches must be flipped by the crowd as they take turns trying on my helmet. The rest is standard talk about cost, speed, mileage, the number of gears and how long I’ve been on the road. None understand ABS brakes or a bike with electronic fuel injection. Strict protectionist Indian legislation prohibits imported cars. Foreign brands must be manufactured in India, so they are unaware of the latest technology. Few have even heard of BMW automobiles, let alone seen intergalactic-looking motorcycles with big aluminum boxes packed with unimagined items.

  It takes an hour to break free, making parking downtown more trouble than it’s worth. At times, I am the rude American in too much of a hurry to chat. But later, feeling guilty, I return with bags of peanuts to reestablish relations. Even when I find secluded spots on highways to park and adjust my gear, one at a time local motorcyclists stop to offer aid. “May I instruct you to the place to where you are going?”

  Relaxing in my luxurious 10-dollar-a-night guesthouse, an anxious staff continues to dote, asking about my itinerary. “Allow me to show you that proper location on this map.” For a buck and a half, including a generous tip, they deliver four fried eggs every morning while I study world weather forecasts on CNN. Between the ridiculously lengthy stories of an upcoming British royal wedding, poofy-haired newscasters offer brief reports of genocide in Darfur. A dutiful receptionist confirms all’s well with the Beast three times a day, with assurances there are no thieves in this neighborhood. A week is like a month of building relationships, and there is sure to be sadness about my leaving. But after a few days of relaxing, once again the road beckons.

  The Taj

  February 12, 2005

  Uttar Pradesh, India

  Today’s white-knuckle ride from Delhi to Agra was another six-hour suicide run through 120 miles of black-soot-gulping raving lunacy on wheels. Fortunately, there was mostly gridlock, so when cars bumped my hand-guards with their mirrors, it wasn’t so unnerving. As long as it’s not trucks or buses, I should survive.

  After the snowy-white domes of Jaigurudeo Temple popped up from the cluttered landscape of ramshackle buildings and semi-cultivated farmland, it was only another hour before reaching the first of the tombs from India’s feudal past. A tour of the surviving palaces begins in the countryside at Sikander, where a stately blend of white marble and red sandstone encase the burial chamber of Akbar the Great, noblest of Mogul rulers. Remembered as a fair and just man, he retained power by acknowledging and respecting all religions.

  Reaching Agra after sunset meant combing torch-lit, smelly alleyways in search of cheap hotels with safe parking. Choices were limited. The power was out, and narrow, winding stone passageways were packed with bicycle rickshaws, sacred cows and babbling souvenir peddlers circling like sharks. The equivalent of $3.50 U.S. buys a damp but tidy cubicle with a weak promise of hot-water-buckets for bathing in the morning. There is a possibility of electricity if the aging generator fires. Not bad, considering directly next door is roast chicken and an Internet café.

  It was early to bed, early to rise for that ultimate predawn photo, but as the sun ignited the sky into a pale gray dome, the mighty Taj Mahal was shrouded in an annoying smoggy mist. When the confluence of choking hydrocarbons and early-dawn haze eventually clears, a blinding glare from an imposing white marble mausoleum blazes above the surrounding tropical green gardens. Four outward tilting minarets mark the corners of this astonishing display of obsessive romance. Multicolored stone inlays and semiprecious jewels adorn polished walls and patterned columns of this seventh wonder of the world. Carved into rows of translucent stone, ribbons of Arabic script citing Koranic verses flow over windows and archways.

  Dark-skinned women in dazzling saris of brilliant fluorescent pinks and limes burst across the backdrop of opulent, palatial magnificence. Designed to capture winds from the river, forceful breezes flow through honeycomb marble screens, producing cooling drafts, while the brightness can’t be tamed. Unobstructed sunlight reflecting off slabs of sparkling white stone is unbearable for the naked human eye.

  Built in 1653 by Emperor Shah Jahan in honor of his beloved wife who died bearing his 15th child, this is history’s most spectacular testament to love. So distraught at her passing, he commissioned the finest Persian architects and 20,000 craftsmen to spend the next 22 years constructing this monument to her memory. Later, Jahan was overthrown by his son and imprisoned across the river so he could spend his dying days gazing in remembrance. Such images are consciousness-stilling visions that last a lifetime. As with the pyramids, neither prose nor poetry can adequately describe what you feel when seeing the Taj.

  Rajasthan

  February 16, 2005

  Jaipur, India

  The trouble with India is with so much to see and experience, there can never be enough time. Including my one-month visa extension, I have just six weeks, barely enough to visit the north.

  Delhi consumed a week, organizing travel docs and minor bike repairs. I stopped in Agra to visit the Taj Mahal and in Jaipur to inspect old forts and palaces. Next comes Pushkar, a small religious village surrounding a sacred lake, one of the holiest sites for Hindus. Bathing in the hallowed waters represents a spiritual cleansing for Indian pilgrims.

  My motorcycle continues to draw crowds, providing opportunities to meet the locals and hear what they have to say. Determining where to eat and sleep could be challenging. India can be confusing and frustrating at times, especially if you’re fending off predators and hustlers. It takes a lot of conversation, but occasionally it’s possible to break through the scams and make friends. Bikers are treated better than backpackers, still you’re never certain if you’ll be asked for rupees after someone has done you what you thought was a favor.

  With its billion people, occupying 2.4 percent of the earth’s surface, India is the world’s biggest democracy, with six major religions and a different culture appearing every 50 miles. There’re 18 official languages, with nearly a thousand dialects. English is the medium for business, so most people in the cities speak a familiar tongue, but out in the countryside, it’s back to hand gestures. The minimum wage has risen to a dollar a day, yet 65 percent of the population is literate. Small roadside restaurants are too risky to consider. Even in cities, unless the restaurants are crowded, with rapid food turnover, it’s wise to avoid them. The best may have bathrooms but no soap or toilet paper for customers or employees.

  But India is paradise for bargain traveling. In Jaipur, three nights, hotel, three deep-fried-egg breakfasts and hand-washed laundry comes to 20 bucks. A classical dinner in a decent restaurant sets you back five. Gas is three dollars per gallon and climbing, but riding so slowly on the overcrowded roads has increased my fuel efficiency to nearly 700 miles per tank. By the end of the month, I’ll be back on budget.

  Midwinter weather is perfect for riding, warm and sunny with no clouds or rain. With a little luck, I might not need my foul-weather gear again until June, when crossing Australia. My faithful Blue Beast still fires on the first spark, but due to the constant hard braking, the tires are wearing fast. The odometer reads 24,493 miles, with the next major service due in Thailand, April 2.

  Awed by the Taj Mahal in Agra, India

  Hucksters and Holy Men

  February 19, 2005

  Pushkar, India

  Traveling in India, there is a photo-op on every corner. But the best ones often appear at the worst times. The day you forget your camera, you are certain to encounter a wedding procession with grooms in elaborate costumes astride gold-decorated, prancing white horses. Even with the thousands of digital photographs stored on my laptop, I
only capture 10 percent. All I have are memories of camel caravans in downtown Karachi or elephants humping in hotel parking lots.

  On the road from Jaipur I encounter a typical sight throughout India — stonemasons at work assisted by streams of graceful women laborers. Men stand around smoking hand-rolled cigarettes as younger boys help stack heavy rocks on top of the women’s heads. Dressed in traditional elegant saris and smiling through a grimace, they accept their plight as second- and third-generation slaves. Their futures are determined by caste; even when they are paid, it will not be much.

  There is no second-guessing in Pushkar, where the most colorful people of Asia provide endless opportunities for shutterbugs. According to Hindus, Pushkar Lake was formed at the desert’s edge when Lord Brahma slew a demon with a lotus flower. Ever since, it’s been a site for religious pilgrimage. Now, sadly, it’s a colony of lazy, pseudo-spiritual wannabes who take themselves far too seriously. But they can also be entertaining. Last night, there was a decent ’60S-style benefit concert for street children, featuring turbaned white boys from France dressed in authentic local garb. Groups of “recently converted” musicians strummed and banged under the stars using native instruments while aging, scraggly hippies tried unsuccessfully to dance to the music.

  I have finally figured out why all the women in Israel are beautiful. They’ve exported the homely to India, where the population is rife with space-cases wandering about in Indian garb with matted dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes. Most are just out of the military, recuperating from the stress and unpopular politics, so they seldom speak to other foreigners. Curiosity wins out, and I ask a weathered young woman, “So, how come there are so many Israelis here?”

  “Hash, man. It’s a tenth of the price in Tel Aviv and if you bargain, you can live on two dollars a day.”

  “What about the spiritual aspects?”

  “Oh yeah, that too.”

  The hundred-acre Lake Pushkar is lined with cement block steps leading down into formed pools for bathing pilgrims. Colorfully costumed, scamming pimps on the street above lure the unsuspecting with handfuls of flower petals to toss into stagnant sacred waters as tributes to Hindu gods. But spirituality is not free. Holy men await lakeside, ready with rehearsed prayers and demands for rupees. While those who’ve ignored Lonely Planet guidebook warnings naively fling petals at sunrise, prayer-mumbling priests in dirty robes circle like vultures.

  After the chanting, whichever way they turn, the hapless face a grinning old man with painted skin and open hands. “As you like . . .”

  “What?”

  Humble smiles accompany meek bows with outstretched palms. “As you like, rupees.”

  Twenties and 50s are handed back with sterner requests, “As you like — more rupees.”

  At sunset, I find some secluded steps free of gawkers and hawkers for a moment of meditation. Settled into a balanced lotus posture, the relentless tapping of tabla drums merge with fluctuating whines of Indian string instruments echoing inward, drawing me deeper. I’m half-expecting a miracle or brief glimpse of nirvana, but none arrives. No holy man approaches to slap my forehead and reel me into enlightenment, but I surface in time to stop mischievous monkeys from scampering away with my helmet. Still, the show is endless.

  Juggling musicians and clever beggars compete at the water’s edge, each plying their trades. A cunning old man with a bamboo violin and his tiny daughter are the winners. While sawing out off-key Indian folk songs, his ragged little girl sings at the top of her lungs, with smudged face and twinkling brown eyes. No matter which way you turn, she scurries around to face you, belting out verses while staring deep into your eyes. Even the most hardened tightwads buckle, surrendering crinkled bills.

  Back on the street, animal dung dumped from cows, pigeons and monkeys is trampled into clouds of stinking dust. Some of the more experienced beggars don’t even bother to rise. They merely sit in family circles, sipping tea next to plates of cash. Retorts of “Sorry no small money” are met with wads of bills waved in the air and replies of “No problem, I can make change.”

  Despite the circus of hucksters, there are many excuses to stay another day. Time on an Indian road is time in hell. If the buses and trucks don’t get you, a heart attack will. There was a new triple-lane freeway stretching down from Jaipur that was even separated by a raised concrete median. Still, every 10th vehicle hurtling through the traffic was a bus with blaring horns, roaring directly into my lane. The only option was to grab the brakes and head into a field. In Turkey, I stopped frequently to recover from the cold; here, I halt to slow my pulse and wait for the shakes to pass.

  Everyone has their weak points; for me, it’s giggling street children skipping circles around my motorcycle, begging for rides. I agree to a lap of Main Street; soon, three excited youngsters pile on back, urging for horn beeps and wheelies. As the word spreads, a crowd grows. I don’t give them money, but a few bucks buys enough oranges to appease my army.

  Indian pilgrims, also tired of shams and hustles, consume my afternoons asking questions of “Which are the places from which you have come?” Reciting a list of countries, I end by shouting, “And then, INDIA!” After applause, I ask questions about their lives and professions. Shopkeepers, doctors and factory workers all have their stories of family and religion, and they are delighted a foreigner wants to hear them. Soon they shove handfuls of scribbled addresses my way, with invitations to visit their towns. As Pushkar is a Hindu holy city, animal protein is forbidden. But someone has taught the locals the art of Italian cooking and basic hygiene. Too bad I can only eat a limited amount of pizza and ravioli for breakfast. The overcooked flesh of unfortunate chickens tempts me onward. In the morning, I’ll repack freshly river-laundered riding clothes and head southeast to “determine the direction for which will be the location of my approaching destination.”

  Friends gather around to see the Blue Beast

  Detours

  February 21, 2005

  Kota, India

  Even using two computers simultaneously, their sluggish dial-up speeds consumed four hours at the Internet café just to upload 10 photos and answer email, extending an already late departure to 2:00 p.m. Although it would be tight, five hours should be enough to cover 120 miles before sundown. Dodging herds of donkeys and camels, if I am cautious and keep moving, it’s possible to average 25 miles every hour.

  Since it was Sunday, commercial vehicles would be scarce, making an easier ride from Pushkar to Kota. The shortest route shown on the map, a secondary road through farmland, provides an opportunity to absorb India’s country life. For a change, traffic is light and the patchwork of deteriorated asphalt tolerable — if taking breaks standing up on the foot pegs.

  Road signs are written in Hindi, so at forks I stop and wait for opinions. Young Sikhs on scooters stop to help, but today even a bus driver parks mid-road to check. Lost travelers never wait long for assistance in India. But outside the cities, no one speaks English, and even single words can be misunderstood. It’s quicker to hold up pieces of paper with scribbled city names and shrug my shoulders. From there, an arm-waving spiel in unfamiliar dialects suggest a general direction. On changes in direction, I tap a right or left arm and enquire, with a rising inflection, “Kilometer?” then hold up my hand pointing to my fingers one at a time. They get the idea and smudge the appropriate number on my dusty gas tank.

  Most country folk have never driven cars and have little knowledge of what lies two villages ahead, so I take it one fork at a time. The road has been slowly worsening, until soon, the surrounding mesquite was encroaching from the sides. That should have been the first indication that few travel this way.

  My GPS tells me I have 50 miles left to Kota when another reason to turn back appears — a flooded road. There was no way to gauge its depth, but the water in front of me was slow moving and barely 100 yards to the other side. It’s usually best to w
ade in first with a long probing stick, but sunset was fast approaching. Tired of waiting for someone to appear who might know exactly where to cross, I rolled the dice.

  Halfway across, the bottom was still visible until I abruptly hit a pothole, sinking the Blue Beast instantly to mid-tank level and over the top of the seat. A wet body is manageable; a wet intake manifold is not. Engine air snorkels on BMW Dakars are purposely set high for this reason, to facilitate river crossings in up to three feet of slow-moving water. Turning around midstream was not an option, and with 50 feet left, there was no way for me to tell if the bottom dropped further or sloped up to a welcome climb out.

  As chilly water gushed into my boots, I nudged the bike fast enough to stay upright yet slow enough to keep fluid from flowing into the snorkel. The strategy was complicated by the need to stay prepared to squeeze the clutch if the motor coughed. Sucking water into a running engine is a bad idea under any circumstances, but out here in the boondocks at sunset — it could be a big issue. To my relief, a gradual incline led to higher ground.

  Without further delays, it was still possible to reach Kota just after dusk. But Mr. Murphy had other plans. Twenty minutes later, a fading sun provided enough light to show me why the road was no longer used — the deteriorated asphalt only led to another deeper flooded valley, this time stretching for miles, forming a lake.