Читать книгу No Room For Watermelons - Ron Fellowes - Страница 15

7

A Comic Opera

‘Take my picture, please, mister, PLEASE.’

‘You buy, you buy, very cheap, only 500 rupees.’ One young voice after another called. ‘My family make, very precious. Okay, for you today, my first customer, only 100 rupees.’

Although I had to admire their persistence, it seemed wise to avoid eye contact with the horde of youngsters who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Since the recent acquisition of two spare tubes, the FN was now grossly overloaded, and I couldn’t take on anything else. (The tubes were not the right size, and their quality was questionable, but they could make a difference in an emergency.)

When the sightseeing was over, it was time to get down to business. Mr. Singh offered me the use of his engine-reconditioning shop to do repairs. These included inserting a small nail in the chain-adjuster clamp. This would give a better grip on the dovetail because the pedal gear frequently came loose. Rough roads had caused the brass ring on the horn bulb and light hinges to vibrate free. A strong hose clamp, though not an attractive fix, would do the job on the bulb horn; and a rubber hose over the tailpipe of the muffler would, I hoped, direct oil away from the rear tyre.

Unfortunately, when the tube had blown apart earlier, it had broken the mudguard stay, bending the guard into the carrier and taking off a large chunk of paint. Any more of this and the bike would be in need of major restoration by the end of the journey.

Lynne and I took our leave from the Singh home after a few days’ rest and arranged to meet again later in Rajasthan.

Once across the state line, I was struck by several improvements. Restaurants and hotels, public toilets and signs advertising drinking water became apparent. Motorcycles were able to pass through the tollways without charge, making entries and exits easier. The four-lane highway was clean and easy to travel. At least it was until I entered each town, when rows of judder bars appeared without warning, threatening to shake the bike to pieces.

The hose extension I’d made barely lasted five kilometres before a hole appeared. The poor grade of rubber wasn’t able to withstand the pressure. I needed to come up with a better design.

A few hours into the day I was jolted out of a fuddle by the driver of a timeworn Morris Oxford honking his horn and waving frantically. As the car drew alongside, a woman leant out the window and invited me to stop for a drink. Bemused, I pulled into a roadside café and the two of us made our way to a table and ordered chai. For the next hour we laughingly shared our travel experiences, much to the amusement of locals, intrigued at our strange goings-on. Before we parted, the woman suggested we rendezvous at the Hotel Atithi.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m meeting my wife there,’ I said kissing the lady affectionately on the cheek.

‘No matter,’ said Lynne, ‘I’m meeting my husband, Ron. Maybe you know him?’

The little motorcycle excelled itself on the 245 kilometre-ride that day. The only problem was that the previously fractured rear-mudguard stay was now completely severed.

The instructions to get to our hotel were to look for the Radio India building and then take the next right. Inching through a belching armada of buses, trucks, taxis and motorbikes, with my eyes streaming, I searched in vain for some sign that I was on the right track. It seemed I was going in endless circles. I asked one person after another, ‘Where is the Hotel Atithi?’

This way. That way. Once I’d ridden up and down every bloody street in a five kilometre-wide radius of the radio station, I knew I was bound to find the hotel eventually. By the time I finally spied the modest sign, I was shattered, and could barely push the bike into the tiny front courtyard.

A hot shower soothed my aching limbs, and against hotel policy, the clerk kindly arranged for room service — hot chips and tomato sauce. Well before nightfall, I crawled into bed. During the day, every vehicle, from trains to trishaws, emits earsplitting blasts on its horn, the louder the better it seems. Not that it makes any difference to the traffic flow. Beeping one’s truck horn is an art form in India. But here, in a hotel, the silence was almost unnerving.

Next morning I enquired as to where I could get repairs done. ‘Yes, good sir,’ the obliging desk clerk assured me, ‘I know an Indian specialist who can make anything for you, very cheap, very quick. I will send a boy to get him now.’

An amicable fellow duly arrived with tape and chalk, and set about taking measurements. Then he jumped on his bicycle and headed back to his workshop. Here, I thought, is a man who knows his trade. Wrong! When he returned an hour later with the new stay, it was 10 centimetres too long. Not to be discouraged, my creative friend measured again, went away, and returned with the replacement in hand. This time it was seven centimetres too short.

It was time to make a suggestion. ‘Perhaps I could mark it out on a piece of steel and you cut to my measurements?’

He raised his eyebrows, quizzically, and left, albeit a little less enthusiastically. Nevertheless, he returned with the material. I marked it out, precisely, feeling confident the problem was solved.

The man reappeared with a stay that was more or less like — but not quite the same as — my pattern. This time, though, it did fit. His face lit up. I’m not sure if this was due to relief or pride. Somehow it didn’t matter. The lugs he had welded on to fit the mudguard were not at right angles. But that too was a minor technicality, because when I bolted it to the mudguard the lug fell off!

Crestfallen, the engineer took it all off and disappeared again, to re-weld the lugs. This time, they sat three millimetres away from the mudguard. I sensed the man was becoming irritated, and was seeing me as the problem. He asked if he could borrow my file, then sat down on the doorstep of the hotel and filed away for an hour until the surface was flat. Five hours passed before I finally had a rear mudguard stay. Although it didn’t look pretty, it did the job, and, in fact, it remained that way until the end of my journey. The price, however, had skyrocketed. I questioned it.

‘But, sir, I made you three stays. It is only fair that you pay for them all.’ I didn’t have the heart to suggest maybe he should be paying me for the engineering lesson. We shook hands. Once again, I put it down to an experience of life on road when you’re an old bloke on a bike. And, let’s face it, I wasn’t paying Australian penalty rates!

Before I left Jaipur I went shopping for sandals. My toes were raw and ugly, and I had to admit my feet were more comfortable without boots. It’s just a shame I’m so resistant to doing things that make sense. At least, while I was off the bike, my feet had a chance to heal. But they weren’t a pretty sight, which no doubt was unpleasant for the poor shop assistant.

Back in the saddle and beyond the city limits, I faced lashing winds that blew sand stingingly across the road. My arms ached as I fought to keep the motorcycle upright. Despite the conditions, the FN coped reasonably well — until the rear tyre blew out again, the rim gouging into the road. Shit! The low-grade Deestone tyres were proving a nightmare.

By the time I white-knuckled the bike to a halt, my legs were shaking. Several motorists stopped to help and began gathering rocks to jack up the bike.

One man, noticing I had no water, set off, returning half-an-hour later with two full bottles. Meanwhile, his friends had helped me remove the wheel and tyre, ignoring the sandstorm lashing us. Unfortunately, I had only a 19-inch tube, not an easier fitting 21-inch. I hoped it would hold out.

Earlier, in Jaipur, I had spied an advertisement for off-road KTMs, which use the tubes I needed. My excitement was short-lived, the salesman informing me they only intended importing KTM road bikes, whose tubes don’t fit my bike.

A few hours after fitting the tyre in the sandstorm, and before I could say goodbye to my good Samaritans and ride to Mangliya Wash, I had to root out my gear, now under a thick layer of sand. I shook everything vigorously, the fine particles having found their way into every nook and cranny. My face felt as though I’d scrubbed it with burnt toast, and my eyes stung. I wiped them on my sleeve and doggedly set off again. A week later, I was still finding sand in pockets and seams.

Construction of an upgraded Jodpur highway meant traffic diversions here and there, creating a vehicular free-for-all. Motorists, impatient at crawling bumper to bumper, drove over footpaths, squeezed into the smallest gaps, and wove around in front of gigantic earthmoving equipment, barely a roti’s width between them. I’d had enough, so I staggered in to the next rest stop.