As a wobbly-kneed democracy a half-century old, India struggles hard to hold together its differing factions and cultures. Due to separatist rebellions and inter-caste violence, entire regions remain closed to outsiders or require special entry permits. Controlled mainly by bandits and local mafia, according to news accounts, the treacherous northeastern state of Bihar is the most corrupt of the nation. The most immediate threats come from muggers; even buses in convoys don’t travel past sundown. Train robbery was common when engineers used to stop at small towns. Known as an outlaw haven, the Rough Guide manual states that several executive legislators are wanted for murder. And for overland crossings, my Lonely Planet book advises hiring armed escorts.
The Grand Trunk Road, stretching from Peshawar to Calcutta, is the Indian subcontinent’s version of America’s Route 66. Although the section from Varanassi east was described as “good,” reaching Nepal still required passage across forbidding Bihar. As always, “good” meant barely passable on an eight-and-a-half-hour stand-up ride of 110 miles on a decimated dirt road under construction. For now, I am just anxious to cross the next border.
Once in Nepal, there are several roads leading to Katmandu, but all pass through areas beyond the army’s control, and local truckers I talked to offered little information on the safest route. As with all civil conflicts, with 11,000 dead, the war has mostly affected Nepalese civilians. My emails to shippers in Katmandu confirmed cargo flights were available to Thailand, but reaching that airport by motorcycle is still questionable. There was an unsettling trade I could make — the least dangerous road through Nepal connects from the most hazardous route across India, due north from Raxual, Bihar.
Ironically, Bihar is the land where Buddha spent most of his life. International pilgrims flock to Bodhgaya, a subdued, tree-shaded village like a tranquil island in the center of Bihar. This is where the young Indian prince sat in meditation beneath a Banyan tree patiently reaching nirvana. Having had my fill of Hindu culture, a smooth buzz of gentle Buddhism was in order. With a week left on my Indian visa, Bodhgaya would be the perfect stopover to monitor the situation in the Himalayan kingdom further north.
Traveling east, the sun drops before a city appears, and traffic instantly diminishes to the occasional stragglers hurrying home before we’re swallowed in total darkness. Soon, I am alone, again violating my common-sense pledge never to ride at night. Finally, after pantomiming my immediate needs, some villagers direct me to a dirt road leading to Aurangabad, a grimy out-of-the-way city drowning in poverty. As elsewhere in India, its dust-clouded streets are congested with swollen rivers of pedestrians and rickshaws with barely room to pass. Crowds part only for a slow-moving military jeep inching forward with blaring siren. I follow it as closely as possible in the all-consuming gap of rushing humanity.
During momentary breaks for directions, I am nearly crushed by throngs of gawking natives. Pointing to the bike, they shout in unison, “How much, how much?” Getting on my way again is difficult, as nobody wants to be the first to move. At the first of Aurangabad’s two decrepit hotels, the manager merely points back to the door stating, “No.” This was not a good sign.
Back on the street, a frail little man in neat civilian clothes steps forward to my aid, and after some haggling, takes me by the hand over to my bike. Pointing to himself he says, “Police. We go other hotel.” Assuming he’s another tout hustling a commission, I agree anyway; there was nowhere left to go. Before I can stop him, he climbs on the back of the Beast, and we ride, him shouting to the crowd to get them out of our way.
The second hotel was worse than the first — red spittle-stained walls with no running water and more mosquitoes than a Siberian campsite — but there was a vacancy. Certain a finder’s-fee is about to be announced, I prepare to bargain. Instead, the kindly old man merely shakes my hand while kissing my fingers. “You are my guest.” Warning me not to venture outside, he brings me a strange meal of stringy meat on unfamiliar bones cooked in a greasy sauce. The source of this mysterious feast may have been recently swinging from trees, but considering I had had no food since morning, any food was welcome relief.
In a wobbling twilight hum, the ceiling fan functions long enough to dry my sweaty filth to a crust, and once barricaded inside, I climb into my laptop to record today’s events. Like a flashing disco light, the power flickers and mercifully ends at about the time my computer battery dies. Tossing and turning with an open pocket-knife in one hand and an oil-stained blanket pulled over my head, I drift into sleep dreaming of Nepal.
In the morning, I am awakened by persistent knocking. With a bleary-eyed stagger, I pull the chair from the door to discover two smiling cops in uniform, one of them the man from last night. Using a mixture of Hindi and English, I confirm that my evening had been uneventful and that after a breakfast of four fried eggs, I’ll be back on the road. After instructing the manager to report when I leave, we pose for a photo before I have to sprint for the bathroom. Monkey meat does it every time.
Impressions
March 14, 2005
Bodhgaya, Bihar
No matter your first impressions of a country, it’s the last ones that linger in your memory. There’re so many highs and lows in India that even when rereading my diary, my emotions are scrambled. One day the Indian manner of speaking with their faces uncomfortably close has me ready to leave; the next I’m overcome with gratitude when a stranger selflessly offers me aid.
This was my second journey to India. The first was in 1989, when I rented a jeep and drove the cease-fire line with Pakistan along the Indus River into the northern province of Ladakh. There had been an ugly situation brewing in Kashmir, with fighting breaking out between Muslim separatists and Indian troops. Bus station explosions and random acts of terrorism against civilians eventually became routine. That senseless religious violence had been disturbing enough to make me move from Asia back to California. At that time, I had no intention of ever returning, and if India hadn’t stood between Pakistan and Nepal, I wouldn’t be here now.
It takes years to understand the shock of what travelers experience in India, and time is always in the way. Difficult choices of what to see are made after studying guidebooks and talking with fellow wanderers.
“Glen, you really need to hit the beaches of Goa and Kerala.”
“What would I do there?”
“Nothing. You just relax and drink beer.”
At this stage of my journey, the notion of idling in paradise was appealing, but the 12 days it would take to get there and back might be misused time. Bodhgaya lacked the circus-like hustle of other Indian holy towns, mainly because this mecca for Buddhists is so far out of the way and the tourist season is over. The daily temperature is rising quickly, and devastating monsoon storms are just weeks away. Even the ever-persistent touts are too lazy to annoy the few remaining temple-hopping backpackers.
This is where Buddha is said to have reached enlightenment, and Buddhist countries have built temples and monuments here to honor the sanctified land. Even the sacred Bodhi tree outside the Mahabodhi temple has been grown from four generations of saplings cut from the original. Streams of peaceful pilgrims pay silent homage with meaningful, slow garden walks and offerings of fragrant garlands. With the obnoxious hawkers walled out, sunrise meditations under the Bodhi’s canopy are moving experiences that touch the soul.
Although each sacred site holds unique significance, I find it’s the people of India who leave the deepest impressions. When asked by the natives why so many foreigners visit their country, I explain, “It’s because your peculiar beliefs and ways twist our minds. To free our own thinking, we seek that which is furthest from our own.” Ideas that confound us also deepen our thoughts; India is as far from the West as you can get without leaving the planet.
Maintaining a sense of humor is the only way to enjoy Indians. With a rapidly growing middle class, overnight there has been a proliferation of new vehicles
on already gridlocked roads. Four million motor-scooters alone appeared this year, with few of the drivers licensed or skilled. Anyone of any age who can afford a scooter is allowed to drive one, carrying however many passengers they can fit. This makes for constant light collisions and numerous near-death experiences.
But Indian men are always around when you need them and often when you don’t. If stopped by the side of the road, it never takes long before an inquisitive man approaches, offering assistance. The women are more reserved. Like Arab females, for whatever reason, Indian women are quiet in public. Although much more visible, they hardly acknowledge a foreigner’s greeting. Typical of developing nations, India is undoubtedly a man’s world. As women toil in fields, jabbering men stand by, smoking cigarettes.
From festivals to palaces, even considering the Taj, my most moving impressions of the country were of the remarkable grace of the enduring Indian women. Whether laboring in agriculture fields or stepping from luxury cars in uptown Delhi, Indian women have a unique style. Draped in brilliantly colored saris, their compelling composure suggests histories of royalty, no matter the reality. In cities and villages, emerging through choking clouds of blackened exhaust fumes, they casually step over cow dung, fluid as fabled princesses. Peeking through transparent veils of silks and chiffons, whatever their caste, they convey mythical elegance.
Elegant Indian women in traditional dress
Giddy with the Gods
March 16, 2005
Chittawan Royale Park, Nepal
News of escalating violence in Nepal would not deter me. Since trekking the Himalayas in 1981, before it became trendy, I’d yearned to return and rekindle my fading memories of these authentically spiritual people. Witnessing firsthand the sincere humility of the people in this sacred landscape had provoked a profound internal awakening, prompting me to question my Western materialism. Over the centuries, many a wandering foreigner has been stunned by the generosity of Nepali mountain tribes. In those days, money had little meaning as long as everyone had food and their particular religion.
From its ancient prayer wheels to manicured thousand-mile trails lined with hand-chiseled boulders, Nepal was far too intense to absorb in one visit. After learning the wonders of Buddhist culture in the guiding hands of intensely loyal mountain sherpa, California had never been the same, and for the last nine months I’d been counting the days. As was my habit, my itinerary remained vague until reaching the border — I didn’t even have a Nepal guidebook until swapping for one with an outbound traveler this morning. Yet as long as monsoon storms are trailing, anywhere in Asia can be home.
Crossing from India into Nepal was the usual developing nation congested mess of old, groaning buses and broken-down trucks vying for limited road space. But because foreign motorcyclists are in a class of our own, we’re usually bumped to the front of customs lines while the officials scramble to determine what to do with us. Three hours later, after the last of the reviewing and stamping, I’m permitted to enter with a glide into bliss on better roads and without aggressive, suicidal Indian drivers. The first step across the border brings a relieving warmth from the heart and soul of the Nepalese people.
Trapped between giants — much as Mongolia languishes in poverty between Russia and China — Nepal trembles under the twin pressure of Beijing and Delhi. An ethnic blend of Indo-Aryan and Tibeto-Burmese, Hindus occupy the lowlands, while in the mountains, descendants of Tibetan Buddhists subsist as they have for a thousand years. Lack of natural resources or an industrial base makes those living in the land where Buddha was born some of the poorest on earth. Twenty percent of their income comes from tourism that war has now brought to an agonizing standstill.
Halfway to Katmandu lies a cutoff for the Royal Chitwan National Park and a convenient stopover in my nine-hour ride to the capital. After reveling in a day ride of relative calm, I tumble into sleep on a saggy, smelly hostel mattress, with dreams of hunting rhino from an elephant’s back and awake to the tantalizing call of the mighty Himalayas. Formed by colliding tectonic plates 60 million years ago, the windswept, icy peaks are still on the rise, six inches a year. That notion alone has me giddy with anticipation of soaring through mountain curves until sundown. The asphalt is wavy but smooth, and at long last empty straightaways provide welcome room for the Blue Beast to stretch its legs. Once I’ve overtaken convoys of tanker trucks, a steady spiral upwards from the Indian plains leads into the forested foothills of Everest. Boasting some of the best scenery in Asia, Nepal is home to 10 of the 14 highest mountains on earth.
Since it’s the end of the dry season, lowland jungle terrain is parched and golden. Seasonally lush, green rice fields are now multi-acre patchwork squares flattened into cracked cakes of mud. A mountain fire burns somewhere unchecked, enshrouding distant hillsides in a brown haze. Busy battling the rebels, the government lacks adequate resources to fight fires, and so they rage on unchecked. Cement-barrel Checkpoint Charlies are manned by friendly young soldiers waving me past. The only agreement that exists between warring factions is that foreigners will not be intentionally targeted. Leaders on both sides understand that without the flow of tourist dollars, their deteriorating economy will collapse further, to the point where everyone starves — which is happening anyway.
Even as they shake down trekkers for money, gun-toting Maoist rebels politely issue receipts so reluctant donors will not be taxed twice by another patrol. While Nepali warriors will butcher each other, they still smile at tourists, and, so far, none have been shot. Yet the suffering inflicted on these people by their own has broken the heart of many a visitor. A kinder people have never existed, and if anyone’s ever behaved in the image of God, it’s the simple folk who dwell within these mountains.
With tourism quickly collapsing, competing businessmen forlornly accept whatever you’ll pay. Just outside Chitwan, three bucks a night rents thatched huts on the riverbank, including breakfast in the morning. The water level is down but so are the mosquitoes, and my ears have almost stopped ringing from the bloodcurdling screams of trumpeting Indian truck horns. Cold-sweat awakenings at midnight with images of converging headlights are replaced by the serenity of the southern Nepali jungle.
For recharging my fading batteries, there are electrical outlets back by the road, right next to an impossibly slow Internet terminal. Chunks of just-caught river fish fried in garlic sauce complement an already glorious sunset, while another 15 bucks books me a predawn elephant ride and half-day trek to spot crocodiles. Guidebooks warn against hiking, as park rhinos have been known to charge — they can trot at 30 miles per hour and sprint even faster. It remains to be seen if Vikings can snap photos while climbing backwards up trees.
“Yeah, I’m to Goin’ to Katmandu . . .”
March 20, 2005
Thamel District, Katmandu, Nepal
An off-season storm raging through the night swelled the dwindling Rapti River to flood levels, washing out the last road leading to the highway to Katmandu. By morning, the river had risen three feet, swallowing sections of an already decimated dirt track to a shorter route through the mountains. Buses can’t enter or exit the village at Sauraha, but bicycles and motorcycles have access to a tilting wooden bridge across a slow-moving stream.
The day is cloudy and threatening, but torrential downpours aren’t expected until late afternoon. Under normal conditions, it’s a five-hour ride to the capital, but with landslides and missing sections of shoulder, it is best to start early. With the roosters still crowing and an insistent morning sun still trying to burn through the fog, I’m content to be bouncing and sliding through mud and water-filled potholes — at last en route to Katmandu! A disaster for local farmers has left surrounding jungle refreshed and teeming with new life. The predawn tropical air is sweet enough to taste.
Even at gunpoint, traffic never stops in Asia. Sputtering motor-scooters blaze the first after-storm trails as minivans are followe
d by lumbering commercial trucks and crowded country buses pounding new pathways over the storm-altered terrain. From the days of the Silk Road, a halt in traffic has meant a halt in life. Accustomed to disaster, from wars to tsunamis, and the encroaching jungle landscape, stricken Asians eventually find ways to reclaim their lives.
The contrasts to India are a relief. It’s strange to no longer cringe on rural roadways. Drivers here see me sliding and slow to make way. I’m grateful enough just for a passable road, even without guardrails separating dangerous slips from thousand-foot drops. Although at the mercy of Mother Nature, my journey has returned to an adventure ride rather than a death race. When pausing for cliffside sardine breaks, no one stops to stare. Instead, while passing, they offer only a gentle wave with shouts of “Namaste.”
Covering a 30-mile shortcut to the main highway consumes four hours, but, from that junction, riding becomes an eardrum-popping soar into the mountainous mist of the towering Himalayas. Commercial traffic is confined to tightly packed, chugging convoys of diesel trucks, while speeding local motorcyclists haul colorfully dressed Nepali women sitting sidesaddle. Corroded electrical connections have rendered my GPS useless, and there is no English on the road signs. But after concerns that I’ll be traveling past dark, the rust-tiled rooftops of Katmandu soon poke upwards into the radiant skyline.
Guidebook tales of maddening congestion and filthy streets fail to materialize, and just after feasting on fresh roast chicken, a guesthouse conveniently appears down the first side street. A transfer point for river expeditions and mountain climbing adventures, enterprising Thamel District merchants cater to homesick Westerners with goodies from brightly lit mini-markets to upscale restaurants. This whole section of town is a comfortable blend of history and decadent earthly pleasures. Yet the most welcome site for a road-beaten biker was a bustling alleyway lined with pretty Nepali girls under signs advertising Trekkers Massage.
One More Day Everywhere Page 21