One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

While considering my options, a half-dozen field workers approached. Yes, there was a detour — 30 miles back. This would not only mean adding another five hours but recrossing the first flooded road. Then Lady Luck intervened. After studying a wading old man piggyback his child, I memorized his zigzagging path and made it my own.

  On the other side, a car had sat idling while the driver evaluated his chances while I crossed. Satisfied he would fail, he called out to me to follow him to the detour for Kota. This new road was a maze of dips and potholes, often felt before seen. Without a guide and now in the dark, there was little chance of finding the way alone.

  We race into blackness, bouncing and bumping at unsafe speeds. Back on the main road, the driver’s confidence exceeds mine, and he soon disappears through a frightening surge of oncoming buses. The ride offered one extreme or another. Either the buses ran with lights switched eye-level-bright or not on at all. With aching eyes and splintered nerves, I rolled into Kota at midnight, 10 hours after I’d started out this afternoon.

  Orchha

  February 23, 2005

  Madhya Pradesh, India

  The further I venture from oversized, congested Indian cities, the more pleasant life becomes. Out in the country, the midday air is clear and dry, with wide open spaces of golden agricultural fields touching the edges of a pale blue sky. In small towns with packed-dirt roads and ramshackle marketplaces, you become less wary of what people are really up to. That’s what eventually drives travelers from India — the incessant hustle and trickery.

  Unfortunately, there is no escaping the poverty and filth, and it takes half the day to find a semi-clean café to eat in. I always carry water and canned fish just in case, but, still, the abundance of animal dung and raw sewage is a constant reminder disease is never far away. My GPS memory chip only stores coordinates and waypoints for interprovincial highways and major cities, so the best places to visit seldom appear on the screen. Much is left to chance.

  Orchha is an out-of-the-way village with more decaying palaces than hotels, and unless you know where to look, difficult to find. To those on their way to somewhere more important, it’s just another detour on a deteriorated asphalt road, but to Hindu pilgrims it’s home to the sacred Ram Raja Temple. There’s no sign at the turnoff, in the midst of a dry woodland forest; the isolated outskirts of Orchha appear without warning. By Indian standards, its two-story run down hostels are overpriced. Even then, nine bucks rents a sparse room with an ancient TV pulling in BBC News and a bucket of hot water in the morning. As elsewhere, there is a dusty blanket and bottom sheet that gets changed once a week regardless of how many guests have used the room. But it’s been awhile since I’ve woken up itching, so I’m okay with it.

  Instead of another evening of fending off hustlers and rickshaw drivers, tonight, amiable locals provide a chair on the hostel porch to sit and watch a show. As rows of mobile food stalls and wooden souvenir stands button up for the night, a variety of wandering animals converge. Leftover rice, vegetables and rotting fruit are tossed into the street for strays and sacred cows to scrounge and feast on. Irate Brahma bulls with broad, convincing horns poke and moan at barking dogs while wily alley cats sneak scraps from behind. It’s like a scene from a show on Animal Planet.

  Up until now, I’ve had regular access to money; even small cities have ATMs to spit out a few days’ worth of rupees when needed. So while Orchha is out of the way, I assumed there would be at least one in town. There wasn’t. With travel so cheap in India, your money tends to last. It’s easy to forget to resupply. After pre-paying my hotel bill, I discover I am nearly broke. Being cashless in India is a dodgy proposition. An old wooden building with a broken-down metal door serves as both post office and village bank. An ancient rotary-dial telephone connects them to Delhi. From behind a paper-strewn desk, an apologetic manager tells me the nearest cash machine is 10 miles back, in Jhansi. I can either spend an hour backtracking at sundown or eat my last can of tuna for dinner and have enough rupees for bottled water on a morning ride to my next destination of Khajuraho. As a precaution, I always keep hundred-dollar bill folded in the back of my wallet or emergency traveler’s checks glued behind my helmet lining, but this situation hardly warrants pillaging that stash.

  For now, it’s a full moon, and the muddy backstreets of Orchha are lined with two-room stone-tile houses leaking wafts of incense and sinus-burning spices — pleasant confirmations of how far I have come and have yet to go. With my senses buzzing, it’s time to wander strange neighborhoods and see who invites me for tea.

  Sex in the Shrines

  February 26, 2005

  Khajuraho, India

  By avoiding cities the ride has become more pleasant, but I’m still not sure how to reach Thailand. During the last 20 years, Burma has been officially closed for overland crossings, by the military. In Nepal, since the king suspended democracy and fired the government they are nearing all-out civil war. Outraged Maoist rebels have blocked the roads in protest, and there have been numerous bombings and shootings. According to recent reports, truckers and bus drivers defying the rebels have had their tires shot out and hands severed. It’s difficult to imagine the ever-gentle Nepalese caught up in such nastiness, but as of today, 11,000 people have been killed, most of them civilians.

  Shipping a bike from India requires weeks of paperwork and unknown quantities of baksheesh. The next best option is choosing Bangladesh for airfreighting from Dhaka to Bangkok. I arrived in Khajuraho yesterday to temple-hop and weigh the options while awaiting news from Katmandu. Speculation on travel websites is that the blockade may be lifted, but even if that’s true, it’s still best to wait long enough for the word to get out to all the rebels. For now, the embattled king of Nepal has shut down the cell phone connections the rebels require to communicate. What if I run into guerillas who haven’t heard the blockade has ended?

  With my Indian visa expiring March 18, my destination choices in India are limited to the northern provinces close to the Nepali border. If I ride any further south, there will be no time to stop and get to know a place. Besides, 10 years exploring India would only scratch the surface. The more I see, the less I understand, and two straight days of lunatic driving is plenty, considering it takes four to calm down afterwards.

  In the meantime, I’ll linger in Khajuraho, investigating the puzzling legacies of the Chandela dynasty. Historians are uncertain how, in just a hundred years, the limited population in a remote location mustered the manpower to construct their massive, multi-story, intricately carved sandstone shrines depicting daily life. Most intriguing and confusing are the erotic hand-chiseled stone sculptures depicting unusually creative lovemaking. Equally interesting is noting who, when no one is looking, snaps discreet photos of the explicit sex scenes: Everyone.

  Off the main rail lines and bus routes, Khajuraho is as much out of the way now as it was a thousand years ago, which is what likely saved it from invading Moguls. Although reduced to a village, the dusty streets sprout boxy hotels and tatty European restaurants touting authentic lasagna and pizza. The double cheese is great. Electricity comes and goes while snail-paced Internet fails just when you’re about to send a long email. Guidebooks warn about the hustlers, but considering locals survive on so little, the amusing barking of street vendors doesn’t annoy me. A marble-coated hotel room with ceramic tub costs 16 bucks a night, but splitting the cost with a budgeting female Canadian-Bengali backpacker enhances the bargain.

  At first she caught me off guard, suggesting that since we were both sleeping in the same hotel we should share a room. While unpacking our gear she turned and smiled, “By the way, my name is Sheila.” In other circumstances, a woman offering to share a hotel room with a stranger would have explicit implications, but among shoestring travelers it’s common. Still, she is alone and so am I, and her adventurous spirit as a solo woman traveler in India is impressive — especially watching her sparkling eyes grow wide as I desc
ribed the thrills of motorcycling the earth. And she seems to understand when I also mention the accompanying loneliness.

  A Good Woman

  March 3, 2005

  Varanassi, India

  Despite warnings of how difficult motorcycling India can be, Sheila has abandoned common sense and accepted my offer for a ride to Varanassi. “Since we’re both headed that way, you’re welcome to hop on the back . . .” Sheila agrees without a second thought. What made her so eager? Was it yesterday’s country cruise with the warm wind in her hair? Or our discovering hidden brick shrines near villages along the riverside? Or was it puttering through the woods trailing giant deer? Either way, her enthusiasm matches mine.

  Moving from backpacking to motorcycling is a significant jump, but what she lacks in experience she makes up for with zeal. If I would just show her how, she is willing to change the oil for a ride to Varanassi. Without blinking, Sheila gobbled up instructions on how to lean with the turns and now knows not to squirm when we slow to white-line between cars. An hour after my list of terms and conditions, she arrives with a helmet and riding shoes. “What’s next Glen?” She’s already begun jettisoning non-essential items to compress her pack.

  Still, other conditions apply. “Sheila, you ever listen to Willie Nelson?”

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “Good, every morning at sunrise we sing ‘On the Road Again.’” To be certain she understands what I mean, I pinch my nose to imitate Willie’s nasal twang and mumble-hum the pertinent verses.

  Overnight buses and two-day train rides are as taxing in their own way as highway riding, so Sheila is ready for a change. Yet tucked away in my worry file is the responsibility for a passenger’s safety. Her well-being and safety depend on my judgment. Motorcycling is always a numbers game, and no matter how hard we try to change them, the odds never favor the riders.

  While shipping from Jordan, the Blue Beast without fuel weighed-in at 260 kilos. With aftermarket equipment and luggage, that’s a 60-kilo gain over original motorcycle specs. While additional weight negatively affects maneuvering, the beefed-up suspension has made it a reasonable load to handle, but that’s without a passenger. The travel dynamics are about to change.

  An energetic Canadian-Bengali girl traveling alone, Sheila is in search of her roots. Bristling at my teasings that she’s a wandering half-breed, she reminds me her father was of the Brahman caste. A good description of Sheila would include her adventurous spirit and sense of humor — and she was a solid nine with her hair down. An avid reader lugging a personal library, she and her book, upset the tolerance by another 70 kilos.

  To carry additional weight, Ohlin’s mono–shock absorbers are designed with adjustment knobs just below the fuel tank. When twisted clockwise, an aluminum collar hydraulically compresses the heavy-duty spring to stiffen the ride, making it possible to reset the sag and raise the rear end. In case this system failed, mechanics in Istanbul had spent a day fine-tuning other parts of the bike to handle precisely my weight and my gear at the minimum position. Sheila’s additional mass would seriously affect handling, but a simple twist of that knob should rebalance the bike.

  I’m not sure if it was air trapped in the line or simply that there was not enough internal fluid, but when I was getting it ready to ride, that easy twist of the knob had no effect. Inadequate suspension to compensate for the load changes the situation from possible to risky. Yet hints of the problem don’t deter my passenger as she only impatiently wonders what’s holding us up. Enthusiasm like hers is hard to ignore, but even under ideal conditions, this is a questionable situation.

  According to many travelers, Siberia is home to the world’s meanest excuse for a roadway. And while that’s true in terms of length, today, that intensity is matched by the road to Varanassi. Two hundred fifty miles on the map becomes two long days of treacherous wrangling. While temperatures climbed into the 90s, humidity doubled, making inching through congested small-town dusty streets sticky experiences hard to forget.

  On the open road, where there was asphalt, it was so chewed and mangled that riding through the boulders of adjoining fields looked easier. Off we bounce and jolt toward Varanassi in a first gear crawl over lumps and ditches, and even at 10 miles per hour, the suspension slams shut. At every spine-snapping shock, I wonder if the sub-frame bolts will last. Yet through it all, Sheila never flinches.

  Late afternoon, we break for the night, and Savera Hotel becomes our refuge from the encroaching hordes and hassles. Riding the world gets lonely, and it’s nice to have someone around at night to laugh about the day. A visit from Brad and rare encounters with other riders break the monotony, but there are times when the friendship of a woman is what you really need. And the same goes for single female travelers.

  Backpacking women are a breed of their own, but those who venture alone give new meaning to the word courage. From all directions, they endure constant harassment for sex or for their money. Finding a man who requests neither can be a boon for both. It’s not just the travel expenses suddenly divided, there is now someone to share the sunset with and reflect upon the day’s lunacy.

  For partnerships of convenience, there are no established rules of conduct. Satisfying arrangements can be either ruined or enhanced by crossing certain lines. It’s a balance hard to maintain. But then again, difficult days on the bike with a woman’s arms wrapped around my torso can also plant seeds. So we’ll just have to see how long our comfortable friendship remains pleasantly platonic.

  The City of Lights

  March 5, 2005

  Varanassi, Uttar Pradesh

  The intensity of India is remarkable — depending on the day’s events, travelers are consistently either cursing or loving this colorful menagerie of ancient human civilization. There is no in between, you’re either retching or savoring; while reeling through its mystical layers of celebration and suffering. How you view the country depends on whether current cultural jolts move your spirit or turn your stomach. The Hindus are far more accepting of the extremes in life; living and dying are set on a course beyond man’s control. Among the deeply religious, little effort is made to affect the future.

  Although the major cities are thought of as the real India, Varanassi instantly lives up to its legend as the best and the worst. On the western banks of the hideously polluted Ganges lies this fabled City of Lights, the most sacred of sites for Hindu pilgrims. On the massive granite steps of holy ghats, the devoted come to bathe away sin or sip the magic waters. To expire in Varanassi is believed to free the soul; cremation on the riverbank is the ultimate burial rite. Aged cripples and the incurably sick arriving to die are housed in riverside ashrams, waiting to transcend. By the time melted snow from the northern Himalayas reaches Varanassi, it has become an oxygen-free sludge of poisonous bacteria and dangerous microbes. Upriver cities, with their 15 million people, pump untreated raw sewage and chemical waste directly downstream towards the highest concentration of humans in Uttar Pradesh. Those further south are even less fortunate.

  From bankside sunset religious ceremonies to cremating the dead, life along the Ganges rocks the senses of wandering Westerners here to bend their minds. From the water’s edge, centuries-old red brick temples hum with mesmerizing songs and harmonious chanting, while bells and gongs permeate the soggy stench of muggy evening air. While the thumping beats of rock ’n’ roll urge you to move your body, repetitious Indian chords tug at your mind, changing directions just at the moment you seem to identify one. Repeating taps of tabla drums lull the consciousness so it’s slow enough for softly plucked strings of twanging sitars to sweetly penetrate your mind. Gently guiding listeners inward, in unfamiliar keys, soothing voices moan of myths and legends millenniums old. Varanassi becomes an irresistible spiritual seduction.

  The Indian experience is tough to describe — tourists and travelers seldom agree on what draws them back. Still, a lure overshadows the exasperation,
and no one visits India just once. Everyone returns. Is it the twisting of our souls in painful reminders of how simple life should be? Or is it the realization of the insignificance of all that surrounds us, including ourselves? From cheap hash to meditation and yoga, whatever entices you to India is sure to change your life. Emaciated foreigners in local costume, some sincerely converted and others just striving to be cool, saunter in stately poses speaking only to each other. Everything is real, yet nothing is as it seems. And in the steady spinning of your thoughts, you never know what’s next.

  BFE

  March 10, 2005

  Aurangabad, Bihar

  All good things must come to an end and so it is with romance on the road. Sheila’s short journey was over as mine was only half-finished, and we both tried to dodge the awkwardness of returning to being strangers. Packing our gear and reviewing guidebooks, it was a peculiar feeling parting ways with a woman I’d only shared great times with. We might exchange a few emails down the road, but it’s a virtual certainty that we’ll never see each other again. In the past, arguments or strong disagreements on values had ended relationships with women I once cared for. But maybe this way was the best of the best, knowing only Sheila’s good sides.

  Still, despite my suggestions that she quit her job in Canada and ride with me to Nepal, Sheila was heading for the airport, and I toward Katmandu. With a brief hug and a benign kiss farewell, I silently thanked the gods for the magic of Indian whiskey and the hotel receptionist who I generously tipped last week for announcing that the only room they had left had a double bed. While watching her taxi disappear down a crowded side street, I knew someone important was leaving my life forever — and I would surely miss awaking to silky black hair on crisp white pillows. But at least I was still in magical India.