Читать книгу No Room For Watermelons - Ron Fellowes - Страница 14

6

One Born Every Minute

Each morning, the same routine: stretch inlet-valve springs; check tyre inflation; remove grit and water from carburettor bowl and jet. It was puzzling me that the contact points in the magneto were widening quickly yet reducing engine performance. This is the opposite of what normally happens.

And I had a funding problem. At first, I hadn’t realised it would be impossible to change foreign currency in small towns and villages. Therefore, I had to manage my ready cash so that, when it started to run low, I had to be within reach of a city — which meant that I then had to struggle through seemingly endless traffic congestion to find a bank.

In one city, just as I had negotiated my way around a moving truck, the engine stopped. Again! This time it was a broken magneto spring. It seemed that everything on the bike was going to need replacing at least once. Luckily, I’d foreseen this possibility and had brought along two spares fashioned from a hacksaw blade.

Much later, having left Kanpur and finally making it to the NH2 (National Highway 2), I ran into a heavy traffic jam. A truck had rolled and its load of grain was strewn across the highway. A long delay ensued. The driver cleared away the mess, while all and sundry stepped in to direct traffic. Talk about having too many chiefs and not enough Indians!

A further setback occurred when I came upon another accident. This time a pedestrian was injured and people seemed to be arguing about who was responsible. I hoped I would never cause an accident — facing an irate crowd might prove a whole lot worse than being injured.

Rather than trying to find a hotel where few decent ones existed, I hit on the idea of doing what long-distance drivers do: use dhabas. These truck stops are roadside restaurants that provide a place to wash, a hot meal and a chance for a few hours’ rest on charpoys (simple, free beds, fashioned from strips of rubber tyre stretched across a frame).

For less than a dollar, I could buy a meal of bright yellow dhal, raw turnips, tomatoes, freshly made rotis (cooked in a clay oven), and a mountain of rice, all washed down with a tin mug of hot sweet tea. I carried my own plate and utensils in the hope of minimising the chances of dysentery.

The downside to dhabas: blaring horns, flashing lights and the constant hubbub of vehicles arriving and departing. No chance of a peaceful kip or of privacy, with locals peering unabashedly as I undressed. Only when squatting over the long drop — like a cat having a crap in a flowerpot — was I without an audience. And I had to remember to take my own paper.

The owner of one truck stop insisted on shouting me a few glasses of Finnish vodka that he’d scored on the blackmarket. Loath to offend, I accepted. Three hours later, I staggered to my charpoy and passed out. I’m not a drinker at the best of times, and the combination of vodka and yet another hard day on the bike had left me a goner.

Next morning I woke feeling as if I’d spent the night in a blender. I tried not to move my head any more than necessary as I nibbled on one of my last muesli bars. I couldn’t face the thought of a curry breakfast. I donned freshly laundered, but still-damp thermals, which hugged my scrawny frame, and, even before I hit the tarmac, I knew it was going to be a cold, prickly ride, made worse by a throbbing hangover.

Eventually, I was in Agra where Lynne was due to meet me. It seemed so much longer than the 10 days since I had last seen her, and we had a great many amusing tales to share.

Lynne recounted her harrowing experience when catching the train from Delhi. Indian Rail, offering online bookings and boasting a fast and efficient service for six billion passengers annually, got her approving nod — until she turned up at Delhi station and found it bursting at the seams.

Gingerly, she stepped over prone figures amid luggage and assorted boxes. Dodging porters stooped under the weight of over-sized trolleys, she peered around looking for something recognisable. Urgency was in the air, everyone was on a mission: food sellers, beggars, businessmen, touts… For a lone foreigner in her granny years it was a daunting moment.

She searched for her name on the passenger lists on each carriage. When a self-assured individual strode from the booking office to render assistance, she showed him her ticket.

‘This is no good,’ he said shaking his head. ‘You need to have your ticket authorised. This happens when tourists buy online. It’s a scam. They don’t add your name unless your ticket is approved.’

Clearing a path towards the exit, he urged: ‘This way, quickly. It will only take us a few minutes to get to the administration office to have the ticket stamped, then I can help you get on the train.’

Lynne hesitated, then followed reluctantly, wondering if perhaps there was another office at the front of the building. Concern welled up when the man began negotiating a fare with a taxi driver. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere,’ she objected — and was ignored.

Whack. The startled taxi driver held his hand to his face, and the rogue, feigning shock at the price, appeared to be playing the role of Sir Galahad. The two were in collusion, Lynne realised, so she turned on her heel and hurried back towards the platform.

‘What are you doing?’ the man barked, grabbing her arm. ‘You’re wasting time and I’m trying to help you.’

Lynne shook him off angrily, her heart pounding as she fought through the crush, hoping the train hadn’t already left. The devil was hot on her heels, anxious that his meal ticket shouldn’t disappear. ‘Here it is, madam, your carriage!’ he shouted triumphantly, standing in the exact same spot they’d met earlier. ‘And here’s your name, Mrs Lin-ett-e Fellow-es.’

Just as the whistle blew, the brazen shyster grabbed her suitcase and leapt on board, shouldering his way down the aisle towards the allocated seat. Smugly, he stowed her suitcase and backpack and waited expectantly. Against her better judgement, Lynne handed him a 50-rupee note and sank into her seat, acutely aware of passengers’ watching eyes.

‘Well that was a novel way to get a porter to carry your bags,’ I laughed when she told me of her scare.

We later learned of other travellers’ experiences — possibly even with the same con artist — where they were told the tourist office had been bombed two weeks before so they needed to go in a rickshaw to buy tickets in the city centre!

As it turned out, a charming young fellow from Gujarat sat beside Lynne on the train and they spent the journey swapping tales and laughing. When the train pulled into the Agra station, Robin ensured Lynne was safely in a taxi before he made his way to his hotel for a meeting. Next day, he visited our home-stay and I was able to thank him in person for his chivalry.

We were at the Heritage Homestay, a very different experience from what I was growing accustomed to. Despite the somewhat dubious conditions at the hotels and dhabas, so far I’d always been well treated and had no complaints. My gear was never tampered with, and I could nod off after a hard day’s ride, dry and warm, feeling safe among genuinely hospitable people.

Even when the bike was surrounded by a polite mob of onlookers, they only fiddled with levers and the horn. So far nothing had been stolen. My age amazed everyone and, though only a few spoke English, we seemed to share a mutual understanding. Our host, Mr Singh, so wisely, put it this way: ‘Our dress code, language and culture might be different, but we all bleed the same colour.’

Later that evening, when I removed my boots, Lynne gasped and screwed up her nose: ‘What the hell has happened to your feet?’

I had started my journey wearing my sturdy pair of motorcycle boots with reinforced toecaps. In normal riding conditions, these would have been perfect. But, because of the bike’s extra height, I had to press my toes into the ground for extra stability when trying to stop in heavy traffic. This added pressure had caused the nails on my big toes to blacken and become inflamed.

‘Why not switch to open sandals when you’re not riding?’ Lynne suggested. ‘It could stave off infection.’ This made sense, but, hating shopping, I put her advice out of my mind. My main concern was the bike.

For the most part, it was running well, and the only problems had been minor. One worry was the amount of oil that leaked out of the exhaust-valve lifters. Oil, combined with dust and grime, coated my boots, pants, the bike and gearbags, making it difficult to keep anything clean. I did my best to set off each morning with clean gear, even if it only stayed that way for a few hours. I needed to devise a way to limit the amount of oil seepage.

Meanwhile, one of the ‘seven wonders of the world’ was beckoning. I’d hoped to take a photo of the FN in front of the Taj Mahal, but that wasn’t going to be possible. I was informed that no traffic was permitted beyond the outer gates. It was an initiative to minimise pollution damage to the monument, easy to understand in a city suffocating under a thick cloud of smog.

Lynne and I arrived early and joined the growing throng, eager to see the magnificent white marble shrine. Being in the presence of the Taj Mahal is as spellbinding as the architect had intended. Left and right, in front and back, global travellers posed for that once-in-a lifetime picture.

While we were setting up to frame a shot through one of the many arches, a quietly spoken gentleman in western dress approached and began what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel: ‘Sir and madam, I can show you the very best places to take your photographs. I have worked as a gardener here for the past 30 years and I know exactly where you should stand. Please, let me guide you.’

Lynne and I were dubious. We were keen to capture memorable images, but also wary that this might be another con. ‘My wife’s a photographer,’ I told him.

‘Yes she is, sir, and a very fine one too, but I can make her pictures even more beautiful — and for only a few rupees. I will share my knowledge with you, because you look like kind man. Here, stand right on this spot.’ He insisted. We obliged.

For the next half-hour, our professional guide and storyteller rushed us from one end of the long halls to the other, pointing out the best angles and checking to make sure we were following his instructions. Then, when our escort deemed the tour was over, he requested $30 for the service.

We gulped: ‘You said only a few rupees.’

‘I’m a poor man, look at my shoes,’ he complained.

‘But you’re hired as a gardener, right?’

‘Ah yes, but a more knowledgeable gardener is impossible to find.’

We’d barely settled on a fair price before our moonlighting friend left us and started wooing his next customer, a portly American with a very large camera. ‘Sir, please let me show you the very best places to take your photographs. I have worked as a gardener here for 30 years…’