Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  After an hour of stop-start frustration, Gerd reached the airport only to find the company’s reserved parking space taken by some idiot. It was the last straw. Snarling X-rated curses, he jumped out of his car and with his key, scraped a screeching scratch along the door of the parking violator’s luxury coupé. He gave the fender a good kick, got back into his car and set about the agonising task of finding a free parking space. Gerd finally arrived at the check-in counter fifteen minutes before scheduled take-off, a nervous wreck, in a foul mood, gasping for breath and with a precarious pulse rate.

  And now he found himself, sitting next to an upgraded, longhaired jackass, 33,000 feet above the Indian Ocean on his way to negotiate with a bunch of unpredictable Indians. The result of which his entire career depended upon.

  5. Himalayas / Spring, 1944

  India! After his freezing cold experience in the barrack yard, Hermann envisaged his destination would be some sort of paradise. It would be hot, humid and full of Englishmen he would fight heroically. Well, thanks to his mission orders, he could forget about heroic fights. Nevertheless, he was still on a secret mission, destined to accomplish other heroic deeds beneath the sweltering rays of the South East Asian sun. At the very least, he was happy to get out of the cold.

  So it came as something of a shock when the task force finally reached their destination: The Roof of the World.

  The icy winds of the Himalayas crept through their thickest clothes turning toes, noses and ears into black-bluish stumps that wouldn’t function. For weeks his small posse had battered through ice and snow, questioning Buddhist monks, measuring skulls, dangling from overhanging cliffs, inadequately treating their frostbite and, when questioned, always answering that they were neutral ‘Swiss’. Apart from that, nothing happened. Nothing that by any stretch of imagination could have been called heroic, anyway. Snow in the morning, snow at noon and snowdrifts in the evening. They came across no primeval Aryans, nor—much to Hermann’s chagrin—any enemies to fight off.

  After the sleigh containing all their provisions had disappeared into a crevasse never to be seen again, they were forced to adapt their diet to local gastronomic specialities. This posed no problem for anyone who enjoyed mountain goat testicles steeped in yak butter. But in truth, it was only the local guides who, with child-like zest, applied any leftovers onto their faces and hair. Supposedly it gave formidable protection against the climate but it emitted such an obtrusive smell, not even the howling gale-force winds could blow it away.

  There was one further irritant in this questionable competition between the olfactory offensive Tibetan guides and the howling hurricane namely the chain-smoking zoologist. He could not stomach the local fare, and the repeated, thundering flatulence that escaped from his backside exposed the entire group to an increased risk of avalanches.

  That and the monotone rhythm of crunching snow boots during their seemingly endless march were interrupted only by the occasional ludicrous giggles of the two race researchers and the breathless chatter between the botanist and Hermann’s adjutant Sauermann, two men never short of culinary topics.

  Galumph-galumph-galumph...

  “My favourite kinds of potatoes are roast potatoes. You have to add some butter, they get really crispy that way” Sauermann mumbled enthusiastically through his ski mask.

  Galumph-galumph-galumph...

  The botanist nodded, panting. “To be prrrecise… the potato is a tuberrrous crrrop… not a frrruit… botanically speaking I mean.”

  Galumph-galumph-galumph...

  There are a moments in everybody’s life, where enough is enough. And Hermann had reached exactly one of those moments. He stopped in his tracks and, ignoring the metallic taste of his bleeding gums, took three deep breaths. Three breaths in which all the frustrations and disappointments of the past three weeks passed miserably before him. Outwardly calm, Hermann set down his knapsack, went over to the botanist, carefully lifted away the surprised man’s snow goggles, then landed a fist on his nose as hard as he could. Then with a bloodcurdling cry, he jumped on Sauermann in a furious attempt to strangle him on the spot. The other members of the expedition came rushing over to try and pull Hermann, still blind with rage, away from his victim.

  “SS-Unterscharfuehrer, get a grip on yourself!” one of the soldiers shouted, tugging at Hermann’s leg.

  Sauermann’s frightened squealing—“Get this lunatic away from me!”—only infuriated Hermann more. He kept on thumping him, all the while kicking at the soldiers who were desperately trying to separate the two men.

  “My dose, my dose!” the botanist wailed holding his bleeding conk.

  Appalled by this, the two race researchers, who by now were holding hands for protection, watched as each of the soldiers tore at the legs and arms of a still frantically kicking Hermann who screamed, “Let me go! I just want to kill him, let me kill—”

  There was a sudden crack of thunder overhead, and everyone froze. There was another. Then, a whole series of crashing detonations. Hermann let go of Sauermann’s neck and looked up.

  At once all of his trained instincts kicked into gear—he knew this sound well.

  “Gunfire, close by!”

  “My dose, I’ll take you to courd ...!” the bleeding botanist snorted. “You codstitude a public dadger!”

  Hermann jumped to his feet. “Artillery! Cannon fire, down there in the valley!”

  One of the soldiers got up, swaying a little as he brushed off the snow. “It’ll be the Japanese in a skirmish with the British.”

  Hermann was impressed. “You can tell that by the sound of it?”

  “No, but we’re close to the border with India. If you listen to enemy broadcasts occasionally—well, er, totally by accident of course—then you’ll know that the Japanese have attacked India from the Burmese side and the British down there are in a pretty tight spot.”

  “The Japanese are our allies,” Hermann reprimanded the soldier. “They have not attacked India, they’re just defending themselves from continued provocation by the British. It’s not aggression but justifiable defence, the objective of which is to lead India onto the Japanese-pan-Asian pathway to prosperity. Is that clear, man?” By now, Hermann had, unlike the whimpering botanist and the shaken Sauermann, completely forgotten about the awkward brawl. His eyes sparkled, his mood had changed and a cunning plan was beginning to form inside his head.

  “Yokto!” he called to the leader of the local guides. “I have an assignment for you...”

  At camp that evening, the group was trying to warm themselves by sitting around the tiny flame of their carbide cooker. Neither Sauermann nor the botanist had exchanged a single word after the incident; the damaged olfactory organ had been treated with snow, of which there was plenty around. The soldiers had gathered around a small radio to ‘accidentally’ listen to enemy radio broadcasts, but all they could find in the airwaves was static noise. Even Hermann had lapsed into silence. He grinned quietly to himself at the brilliance of his plan as he slurped a watery soup made from some puny roots, which had been dug up by one of the Tibetans.

  Eventually, the botanist broke the silence.

  “Whatever happened to our leader?” he asked grumpily. “Where is he?”

  Hermann continued to sup his soup. “In Berlin, of course, where else?” he said, without looking up.

  “No, I mean the Tibetan leader you sent away this afternoon.”

  Hermann put the bowl to his lips and emptied it with a loud slurp. “Ah, him. He’s gathering strategic intelligence.”

  The zoologist looked at him warily. “Strategic intelligence? Aren’t we supposed to avoid any enemy contact?”

  “We are at war, one has to improvise. If we can help the Japanese to invade India, our mission here will be facilitated. The leader will be proud of us.”

  “A Tibetan couldn´t ca
re less who invades India.”

  “The Leader’s a Tibetan?” Sauermann joined the discussion. “Didn’t know that.”

  Hermann rolled his eyes, “No not our leader, I mean our leader, the one who leads us, leads us to final victory, for God’s sake!”

  Sauermann gave Hermann a bewildered look.

  “So you don’t mean the leader who’s leading us, but the leader whose leadership we owe this here sojournment to?”

  Hermann sighed. “Let’s just agree we keep calling our leader, ‘leader’ and the other one ‘scoutmaster’, okay?”

  One of the soldiers looked up confused: “Which one?”

  “What do you mean, which one?”

  At that moment voices sounded from the radio. The enemy radio station had somehow activated itself and was broadcasting a news bulletin. According to which, the decisive battle of the invasion of India was being fought right here in the valley below. Hermann was jubilant. Finally he would prove himself! They would be proud of him, honour him. His plan would render the British a severe blow. The primeval Aryans could wait. Hermann’s time had come.

  The broadcast ended with news from Europe, and the English made full use of badmouthing the Fuehrer. All of a sudden the best-known voice in Germany resounded from the speaker, an excerpt from a Nuremberg speech. It warmed the cockles of Hermann’s heart. Familiar sounds from thousands of miles away. How he longed to be back home in his warm and cosy barrack, doing drills till he dropped, eating thick pea soup or just looking out over the green meadows.

  Everybody else had fallen silent and all were listening blissfully to the speech.

  “Listen closely” the soldier at the radio whispered. “The ‘scoutmaster’ is speaking!”

  6. Goa / India / Present

  The plane landed in Bombay and Arthur said good-bye to his monosyllabic travelling companion. Lining up at one of the Immigration queues he endured an interminable wait since the Indian Customs were in no hurry. They loved to inspect every single suitcase, rummaging through the contents and merrily spreading everything around the concourse. They were equally happy to relinquish the tedious re-collection of scattered clothes to the passengers.

  Arthur endured all this with heroic patience. He was lucky not to have to leave the airport for his connecting flight to Goa. He just followed the ‘Transit’ signs, graciously declining the hordes of bearers trying to offer their services with the obtrusiveness of aged prostitutes. Then, after another check-in, he finally boarded the plane to Goa.

  Eight hours later—two hours flight, six hours delay—he eventually landed at Dabolim airport, south of Panaji, the capital of Goa. He was feeling grimy, drowsy, and in a muddle, but he had made it! He stuck his head outside the door of the aircraft and as he walked down the gangway, the heat, together with the hot and humid air, slapped him in the face like a wet towel. Two more steps... one more... and he had touched Goan ground. He felt incredibly cosmopolitan.

  Dieter had given him an address, the location of Bear’s beach shack—or rather where it had been three years ago. He took the note from his shirt pocket, grabbed his suitcase and went out of the airport terminal and into the blazing sun. All hell broke loose.

  ‘Taxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxitaxi!!!’ the hordes of waiting taxi drivers yelled at him, and for a moment Arthur wondered if their sing-song was for worshipping some exotic deity rather than offering transport services. Perplexed he studied his note. “Who knows a place called... Anjuna?”

  The mob went wild, plucking at his sleeves and his suitcase, fighting for the privilege to take this blatantly dim-witted foreigner to one of the best-known places in Goa. Someone who did not know one of the most popular tourist spots in the country probably had no clue about the state’s tariff of transportation either.

  Taking advantage of the general pandemonium, Arthur managed to jump into a small three-wheeler tuc-tuc that had just dropped a passenger. The driver not quite believing his luck, stared at Arthur with big eyes, while the yelling mob of taxi drivers came rushing towards the tuc-tuc.

  “Sir, please get out, tuc-tuc much too small!”

  “Please, take my car, I have AC!”

  “I am having AC also, plus I show you points of interest!”

  Arthur was tossed around in the back seat. He had to scream to make himself heard over the din. “Just step on the gas, man!”

  The small yellow-black tuc-tuc sputtered into action and off they went.

  Exhausted, Arthur bent over the armrest, but soon the airstream perked him up. “How long until Anjuna?” he yelled to the front.

  “No problem, Sir, immediately we getting there!” the driver assured him, only to stop at a gas station.

  Three hours later, having made several wide circles around Anjuna, which unbeknownst to Arthur lay only 12 miles from the airport. Sunil, the driver, began to feel sorry for this very stupid foreigner who by the looks of it had not even realised that by now they had passed one colourfully painted temple elephant for the fourth time. “Oh, how nice, an elephant!” his passenger had exclaimed in excitement, all three times, before returning his delighted eyes to the green of the rice paddies.

  “Sir, you come India first time?” Sunil asked in a singsong voice, so typical of spoken English in India.

  “How did you know?”

  Sunil performed a vague head wiggle, “How you like India so far?”

  “Very nice, I didn’t know there were so many elephants!”

  “Yes Sir, immediately we getting there!”

  Sunil turned off the main road and minutes later they reached Anjuna. The silly foreigner had paid more than 15 times the normal fare without batting an eyelid. Some people, Sunil thought, really did not deserve any better. “Please, welcome to India, Sir!” he said as he pocketed the money. “You will be making many new experiences!”

  At precisely 3:41 pm Arthur discovered the beach shack from his description.

  At 3:42 pm he was driving a stolen motorbike, followed by a longhaired freak who himself was being followed by a gang of Indian Mafiosi, while simultaneously in the background, said beach shack was going up in a blaze of fire. And this happened thus:

  It was Wednesday, and Wednesdays were not so good. Every Wednesday, the famous Hippie Flea Market took place at the beach of Anjuna, attracting thousands of tourists from all over the country to the tiny spot. This in itself of course, was good for business. Eventually, visitors would get hungry and, because most package tourists from the holiday hotels in Calangute and Baga did not trust the Indian- or Portuguese-influenced food in Goa, Bear’s beach side snack bar became packed to the rafters on Wednesdays. In that sense, Wednesdays were good.

  What was not so good on Wednesdays was a tedious ritual: Shaki, boss of the local gang of goondas—petty thieves, blackmail artists and protection racketeers—and owner of an exceedingly oily centre parting, always chose Wednesday to visit Bear’s snack shack. To have to pay protection money in order to keep selling his sausages at this prime location without any hassle, somehow made sense to Bear. What he could not get his head around—and what really pissed him off—was Shaki’s rock-solid conviction that Bear’s curry sausage was rubbish.

  Actually Bear’s curry sausage was pretty good. Not great, not outstanding, just what you would expect a typical curry sausage to taste like. In Germany, that is. But this was not Germany. It was India and Indians like Shaki claimed to be experts in the curry department. And they considered every non-Indian to be a total washout.

  Every Wednesday, Shaki, accompanied by two of his ‘boy’s, paid a visit to Bear’s beach shack. Shaki drove an imported SUV, his two Arab thugs, who for convenience sake went by the names ‘Number One’ and ‘Number Two’, followed on motorbikes. Their martial demeanour did not leave an impression on Bear, not any more. Not after three years of, every Wednesday, Shaki making
his rounds. Usually Shaki got out of the car, trying to look sinister and dangerous. He would stride over to Bear’s shack and with a snarl receive a sealed envelope containing the agreed sum. He never counted the money: they had been business partners for a long time.

  And then this Indian fellow always ordered a curry sausage...

  The first time, Bear bent over backwards to fetch the best sausage in the house and applied a lot of effort in preparing it. Shaki took one bite—and instantly spat it out.

  “Bear, what you do to this sausage? You must make it better! Like this, you will not sell one single piece!”

  But that’s where Shaki was wrong. Tourists loved Bear’s sausage. Like the German Bakery next door, he filled a market niche. Nevertheless, every Wednesday Shaki would spit a chunk of curry sausage right across the shack and complain either about the sausage or the preparation, but mostly about the curry. “For this kind of curry my father would have killed my mother, Bear, and I would have helped him!”

  “But honestly, it’s the best curry I can get hold of.”

  “Are you saying my father is a liar?”

  The first year Bear really had tried hard, but it was utterly pointless. Too bland, too soppy... the verdict was always devastating. Bear had even created a special curry sausage for Shaki, with curry bought from the market in Panjim. Not a chance.