Bombay to Beijing by Bicycle (14 page)

We cycled a little way down the mountain to the town of Daman and stayed the night in a small guesthouse, me regaling Uros with stories about all the jobs I’ve been fired from, notably from the film industry.

‘Perhaps,’ Uros motioned, clasping a beer. ‘And this is just a guess, my friend, but perhaps you shouldn’t tell the producers to go fuck themselves.’

‘Ya think?’

Rising early, the morning air bracing our souls, we bumped, braked and jarred over the rough tarred road to the town of Phalsong for mid-morning breakfast, up another climb and eventually down to Naubise.

Naubise intersected with Govinda’s ‘flat Mugling route’, and, just as I had thought, it was a nightmare of trucks and buses racing each other around blind corners. And it wasn’t flat. There was yet another towering hill in front of us. We stopped at a shack for lunch.

‘Let’s see your racks,’ Uros said eagerly. He bent down by my bike and shot up, triumphant. ‘Ah! They are broken!’

Sure enough, the rear strut had broken from its weld.

‘Ha-ha! I tell you, steel is better. You cannot fix this now!’ Uros laughed loudly.

I smiled back. ‘Oh, really?’

I pulled out my pencil-case full of spares – cables, patches, screws, nuts, clips, brake pads, tape – and found an adjustable hose ring. I bent the ring around the broken weld and screwed it together.

‘Fixed,’ I said, returning an even more triumphant grin.

‘But it will not last …’ He pulled at the strut, but it was as immovable as the welded one.

I had been advised to be prepared for such a thing. I hadn’t told Uros because I wanted to enjoy this moment when it arrived. When I explained this to him, laughing of course, he scowled, ‘You are a very, very bad man!’

Climbing out of Naubise, sweating through the sticky afternoon heat, we made the last pass by late afternoon and, with relief, screamed down the valley into Kathmandu, a basin of blue smoke, green paddy fields and decrepit three-storey buildings. We followed the choking traffic of trucks, buses, motorbikes and three-wheeled belching taxis.

We headed for Thamel because it was there, my guidebook told me, I could get anything to eat from around the world. Now, this may sound trite or may seem like I am denying myself the authentic traveller’s experience, but, quite frankly, I had had just about enough of
dahl bhat
(it was, as its name suggested, dull). My Western tongue had been spoilt. I yearned for steak even though I was predominately vegetarian; I wanted beer but I preferred wine; I could devour spaghetti though lasagne might do; I craved chocolate cake or a donut; something savoury, something with punch.

We took a bell-shaped room in the Cosy Corner Lodge.

‘We must celebrate!’ I said to Uros, elated, happy, complete as I dried myself from the shower.

‘Yes! We must party!’ he replied.

We went to La Dolce Vita Restaurant across the road, which (as its name suggested) had black-and-white photographs from the famous Fellini film plastered across the walls. We ordered up: a big steak, chips and a bottle of Australian red wine (you can get anything in Kathmandu!).

‘Cheers!’ We clinked glasses and drank.

‘We must really drink tonight!’ Uros said excitedly.

‘Absolutely, my friend! Let’s hit the town, go to a nightclub, dance and get absolutely right royally drunk!’

‘Yes!’ We clinked glasses noisily again and downed another glass.

Half an hour later, we were back at our hotel, face-down in our fat pillows, snoring loudly and very much dead to the world while the street, rowdy with travellers, celebrated for us.

I stared at the naked woman. Her legs were wrenched back near her ears in an impossible yoga position. Yet, despite this extreme pelvic flooring, she wore a somewhat comical smile.

This gnarled wooden form on the strut of the Jagannarayan Temple – located in Dunbar Square in a part of south-eastern Kathmandu known as Patan – was supposed to be erotic art, but rather than thinking of soft pleasures, I could only imagine splinters.

On another strut, a couple indulged in a ‘comfortable from behind’ position and, unlike their gymnastic neighbour, shared a deer-in-headlights expression. Other carvings were more adventurous and bestial: supplicants rogered by smiling donkeys, large-breasted women masturbating wide-eyed men, and couples copulating with wild abandon, their ecstasy frozen in chiselled gapes.

There was no clear explanation for the explicit carvings (perhaps revenge from an underpaid contractor?), but I did hear one interesting story. Apparently the Goddess of Lightning, a virgin who was shy despite being able to fry a pine tree in the blink of an eye, was scared off by the lewd manoeuvres crawling up the struts of these ancient temples. Similarly, in Cathedrals of the West, hidden away in the dark corners of arches were also carvings of devilish indulgences.

We spent the rest of the afternoon like two schoolboys, clicking and snapping our cameras at anything with a smooth lump or bulge.

‘Where are the carvings of fucking?’ Uros scrutinised the other side of the temple. ‘Ah! Here! More fucking here, Russell! More fucking!’

‘Where? Where?’

Two Nepalese men looked on with a smear of disdain at our slobbering performance and continued with their work of erecting a huge red banner across a temple. Chairs and microphones were being set up below, and when the banner unfurled, I realised that we were in the midst of something that had been on my mind before we left for Nepal.

‘I think there is no more fucking left,’ Uros said with a heavy air of disappointment. ‘What is this?’

‘Maoists.’

On the flag above us, the hammer and sickle rippled in the breeze.

Early on in 1996, the radical left of the dissolved Communist government, the Communist Party of Nepal, led an insurrection aimed at abolishing the monarchy and establishing a people’s republic based on a multi-party capitalist democracy. The party was made up mostly of students, oppressed lower-caste Nepalese and farmers. They wanted the most basic of requirements, such as clean water in rural areas, health and medicine for everyone, cheap access to seeds and fertiliser, land ownership, equality for women, and an end to the caste system and the monopoly of foreign capital.

Their movement had originally started off with peaceful protests, but when the government didn’t respond, the party took up arms against state institutions, police, soldiers and individuals in mid-west Nepal.

I wondered what this meeting was about and, more importantly, what the Maoists would do next.

The following morning our bikes needed a tune, so from Durbar Square we went in search of the Annapurna Bike Shop, which had been recommended in the bike journal at the Avocado Hotel.

God only knows how we would find it. All I knew was that it was near the Ason Chowk, and from there we would have to ask for directions. Kathmandu had grown out of a series of town squares and streets, fusing into one another, and as a result no specific addresses were evident. When we did arrive at Ason Chowk, I asked at a shop lined with antique gym equipment. A closer inspection revealed them to be Chinese interpretations of mountain bikes – oversized shock absorbers, chunky steel frames, flimsy vinyl seats. The bike industry in the West was definitely safe from these things taking over the market.
xv

From inside the shop, a small man with a limp took us down a side street and into a small, signless room the size of a closet. It was filled with dusty rims, tyres, assorted parts, old bikes caked with more dust, and a very long and blue tandem called ‘Friday’, which we would later learn had been left behind by two Peace Corps volunteers.

A stout, silent man named Narendra took hold of our bikes. He trued our wheels, tuned our brakes and showed me how to install a new cassette (a ‘cassette’ it is not, as I first thought, an audio tape. In bicycle parlance it is the cluster of multiple sized cogs on the rear hub of the bike that allows different gear ratios. These often wear out and can cause the chain to slip).

‘We’ve cycled 1300 kilometres all the way from Delhi,’ I said, puffing out my chest. Not looking up from greasing the brakes he handed me dog-eared copies of news clippings about a Portuguese–Swiss couple cycling some 14 000 kilometres into China, about a French cyclist tortured in Bosnia, and about a Canadian couple in their seventh year of cycling the world. No wonder Narendra didn’t seem impressed.

As we were leaving, I bumped into a giant trying to climb into the closet. A six-foot American woman, Pru, crouched over and in one lunge had her Hero mountain bike inside.

‘Hi!’ came a big southern American drawl.

She told us she was commencing a two-year study on child nutrition then smiled. I was mesmerised. She had more gums than teeth.

‘Bill Gates is sponsoring it,’ she said.

‘What? Your teeth?’ I said without thinking, and then quickly got on my bike, trying to escape my embarrassment.

The Maoists had been planning something the day that Uros and I had seen them in Durbar Square. A general strike had been called across the country – shopkeepers were forced to close their stores, everyone had to remain indoors, no one was permitted to drive, and no vehicles (including buses and taxis) were allowed on the roads.

This had robbed me of my usual delight of watching Nepali life: rickshaw drivers play-fighting, smiling and laughing; shop owners throwing things at each other – continuing a daily game; and children, though ragged and poor, laughed and hugged each other. Somehow they were all able to remain happy despite their adversity.

News of the strike weighed heavily on Uros. He had planned to leave the next day and now lay out on the bed ill, thinking through the consequences of what ‘those Maoists’ might do.

‘I don’t want to be here another three days,’ Uros groaned. We had already been here for a week and the traveller’s itch was eating him alive.

A crease cracked his glum face as he searched the ceiling for an answer, hands under his head, glasses askew.

‘What am I going to do?’

‘The same thing you’ve been doing for the past week – lying in bed.’

‘Yes, well. But I must get to India,’ he said, and then told me of his travel itinerary for the umpteenth time, though I never grew tired of hearing it.

‘I take the bus to the border, maybe cycle to Varanasi then Agra. Maybe a bus to Delhi. Then I take my plane to Bangkok and meet my … friend (he had ceased referring to Malitta as his girlfriend), then we cycle to Malaysia then to Australia and buy a motorcycle!’

Simone, a German woman I had met in Delhi, walked into our room with a quiet bump on the door and, to put Uros at ease, said, ‘You know, the Maoists just killed thirty-five policemen!’

‘No!’

‘Yes! And they take 25 hostages!’

‘Where?’

‘In Dolpa.’

He looked to me for an answer. ‘How will I get my bus?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘You know, it’s like waiting for a typhoon,’ I said, recalling a night in Taiwan some years ago while trees crashed around us in the dark and for added effect, high on LSD. ‘Just waiting for the storm to arrive. People stocking up on food, hiding in their houses. How exciting!’

‘Ah, yes, we should go for a drink tonight,’ Simone said in her singsong Frankfurt accent.

‘Uros?’

‘What?’ His eyes had barely left the ceiling.

‘Want to come for a drink?’

He looked even paler than usual, his long hair latching onto pillows and walls.

Uros did leave the next day, taking his luggage and angst with him. Not that he really had reason to worry – the Maoists conveniently called off their strike earlier that morning.

He stood outside the bakery, admiring the reflection of his newly bought safari hat – park ranger style.

‘I ride to the bus station and take the bus back to Butwal, then I cycle to Varanasi.’

‘Ah, yes,’ my sphincter clenched. ‘
Butt-well
.’

He gave me a hug. ‘I learn a lot from you. You are a good friend.’

He swung his leg over his bike and waved as he pedalled through the near-empty streets, before the turn of a building consumed him. I had enjoyed our travels together and was going to miss him.
xvii

It was now time to meet up with Bec, so I took a taxi to the airport and stood for some time among the anxious crowd huddled outside the arrivals doors. An hour passed and I was beginning to wonder if Bec was going to arrive at all. Did I have the right day, the right time, and the right flight? Soon, a trickle of Westerners came through the doors. I then saw, at the end of this long line, a blonde mop of hair searching this way and that. An electric shock ran through me at seeing her.

‘Bec!’

She looked beautiful, eyes blue and skin lightly tanned. She dropped her luggage and ran up.

‘My baby!’

We kissed passionately while shy Nepalese looked on, curious at such public displays of affection.

‘God, I’ve missed you!’ we both said, then smiled and laughed at each other.

I grabbed her backpack and we walked hand in hand in search of a taxi back to Kathmandu city.

In our hotel room, I popped a bottle of champagne I had chilled (you can get anything in Kathmandu!) and poured us a glass each. We clinked glasses, kissed and lay on the bed, her telling me of her awful flight on Air Dhaka. It sounded like some kind of bad American sitcom. There had been a fight and men had jumped over seats, punching their antagonists, insulting each other’s wives. The air stewards did nothing to restrain them, so common were these mile-high stoushes.

It was heaven to finally be in her arms after four months apart. As we lay on the bed and kissed, drinking each other in she said, ‘Russ, you know how you said you’d always love me?

‘Yes, darling. Of course!’

‘And that if I ever had anything to tell you, you’d understand?’

‘Yes?’

‘And if for whatever reason our plans changed, that would always be okay with you?’

I looked up. ‘Er … y-y-yes.’

‘Well … I want to cycle with you!’

‘What?!’

‘I said, “I want to cycle with you”. All the way to Beijing!’

‘Oh, um …’ my voice began to break. ‘I thought you just wanted to hike Nepal for a month and then off to Europe.’

‘Yeah. But … well, can I?’

Where was the ‘Oh, I only want to travel with you for a month. I want to travel on my own. I want to experience the world my way’ deal? This was a surprise!

But why was I being like this? Wasn’t this what I wanted, to be with the woman I loved? Hadn’t I talked her into this very idea in the first place?

Perhaps I had enjoyed my independence just a little too much, and maybe this romantic adventure with Bec wasn’t just a gallop around the Himalayas anymore, it was something else: COMMITMENT!

But looking into those dazzling blue eyes I weakened: ‘Ssssurre. It’ll be … it’ll be …
great
!’

The Annapurna Circuit, a trekking route on the Tibetan Plateau of the Himalayas, was extremely popular: 16 000 visitors trekked it per year
xviii
– yet ironically their very presence contributes to the loss of the environment. Forests have been cleared to make way for guesthouses, bridges, and for Westerners’ needs: fuel to cook their food and heat their showers. (It takes 1.5 kilograms of wood to heat a Westerner’s shower; this amount would supply a Nepalese family’s needs for a week.) Nepalese women now travel up to four hours at a time to collect firewood.

Bec and I did our best not to impact on the environment – no showers, meals by kerosene stoves – and we took our own canteen bottles rather than buying them and contributing to the growing rubbish that dots the trekking trail.

After we dumped our heavy packs and sat down at a teahouse, we heard a strange tapping sound. I turned around to see trekkers wrapped up in bright Gortex jackets and gloves, clacking up the rocky path with ski poles. They reminded me of the machines from HG Wells’
The War of the Worlds
and looked just as alien when passed by a Nepalese porter wearing thongs and carrying a fridge.

One of the Gortex crowd, a smiling German, stopped to catch his breath.

‘The ski poles,’ I asked, ‘are you expecting snow, like, soon?’

‘Ah! Ze poles give me balance,’ he said. ‘And zey transfer ze veight onto ze arms by as much as 25 per cent, which gives more energy for ze trekking.’

I wished I had poles! Though I don’t know why they did. These trekkers had porters carrying all their gear, leaving them to carry only a sandwich, a bottle of water and a smile. And, no wonder – it was incredibly beautiful here with the snow-capped peaks looking down on vast open valleys.

They continued on, each trying to jump in front of the other. It became apparent that the trekkers were in some kind of competition, taking the name ‘Circuit’ quite literally, leaping and practically running up eroded hills and cliffs. I’m sure we were lapped several times. As we sat around tables at tea–houses, Herculean stories abounded.

For instance, there was a British traveller who had jogged around the circuit, even up the fatal 5416 metre Thorung La pass through snow, mud and loose slate in a mere ten days. Then, there was a German couple that had apparently done it in seven days. When I mentioned this startling factoid to a middle-aged Israeli couple, they erupted with glee, the husband slamming his fist down on the table, scaring everyone in the guesthouse.

‘THAT WAS OUR SON!’ they shouted.

‘No, actually, it was two Germans who—’

‘AH, OUR SON! YOU HEARD ABOUT HIM TOO, YES?’

‘No, actually, it was two Germans who—’

‘YES! HE JUST GOT OUT OF THE ARMY!’ They looked at each other, smiles so big and bright that I almost had to put my sunglasses on, their chests pumped up like blimps.

‘HE WAS VERY FIT! HE GOT UP AT FOUR A.M. EVERY DAY!’

‘NO, IT WAS 3.30 A.M.!’ his wife corrected him.

‘NO! IT WAS FOUR A.M.! IT WAS ARMY TIME!’ Once they had argued out this important detail, they resumed.

‘YES, HE GOT UP … EARLY. HE WALKED TWELVE HOURS A DAY, SOMETIMES AT NIGHT. HE SAID IT WAS BEAUTIFUL! THE MOON SHINING!’

‘But these Germans, two of them, they did it in seven—’

‘AH! HE SAID IT WAS HARD, IT WAS GOOD, BUT HE’D NEVER DO IT AGAIN!’ He ended the story with another thump of his meaty fist on the wooden table, spilling our tea. Silence filled the tiny teahouse and a fierce wind picked up outside, whistling cheerily to itself through the gaps in the wall.

‘Your son,’ I wanted to say to them. ‘Was he German with multiple personalities?’

Such impatience to complete the Annapurnas in the shortest possible time would some day become a reality. A road going right around the Annapurnas was currently underway so that one day you’d be able to drive the entire 250 kilometre circuit in a matter of days.

Though I could see the benefits for the local people (access to towns, medical services, schools) I could also see how it would ruin local economies for porters and the like. Traffic – like it has done everywhere around the world – would bring with it noise, pollution, rubbish and accidents. The joy of taking your time trekking, being present, feeling part of the incredible landscape, would evaporate in the need for speed.
xix

Anyway, Bec and I managed to avoid getting swept up in Le Mans trekking, and instead got swept up in each other. We walked slowly together, holding hands, getting to know each other once more, having slow breakfasts and making love in the afternoons while the rain and harsh winds pelted at our door.

One day she said something that cast doubt on the possibility of us at all.

‘Everyone was telling me before I left that I was mad to have a relationship at my age. That I should, while I’m travelling at least, have lots of sexual experiences. But you know I don’t want to have all those cheap experiences like you had.’

‘I wouldn’t say they were cheap!’

‘What? You don’t regret any of it?’

‘Why should I?’ I smiled broadly, then kicking the rest of the sentence into the gravel, ‘I was young, good looking, I had charisma! I had fun!’

She was silent, kicking the gravel back at my shoes, then stopped.

‘I wish I had had all those experiences!’ she said, then trudged ahead, sulking.

How could I blame her? She was 23 and I was 32. The difference in our ages had often led to a difference of opinion.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear indeed!