I’d like to say that I didn’t get sick on my last train ride in India. I’d like to say that I didn’t spend 8 agonizing hours on that train running to the toilet every hour. I’d like to say a lot of things but the truth is, I was as sick as a dog. Somehow I miraculously recovered once the train stopped in Delhi. Stomach bugs are strange and unpredictable things and one of the typically-Indian things that I would not miss.
My last few days in India were spent in Delhi, shopping. For 6 months I resisted buying too much (anyone who has been to India will understand how hard it is not to shop) but forced myself to travel as light as possible. Those days of travelling light were over and on the eve of my departure I had 2 large filled-to-the-brim duffel bags full of stuff and a huge Persian carpet in my possession. The carpet was for my mother and as much as I relished seeing her face when I gave it to her I did not find the idea of having so much stuff to carry appealing at all.
Apart from shopping and packing I also had to meet with Stephen and hand over the keys to the Yamaha. It was a ceremonious occasion and Shallu, ceremoniously, took a photograph of the ‘handing over’. I felt excited for Stephen’s impending travels and felt happy and proud that the Yamaha would be accompanying him. Like my friend Elke said ‘it’ll be easy, your bike already knows the way’. In Stephen’s eyes I saw the same anxiousness and excitement that I felt before I went up North and there was a moment when I envied him greatly but my adventure was over and my heart was yearning for my family and for the familiar. Before leaving though there were many goodbyes to say and it left me feeling sad and drained. One goodbye in particular left me feeling empty too. Saying goodbye to Shallu was harder that I thought. I never expected to find such a friend in India and there was a moment, while I was packing, when I considered stuffing her into one of my bags and taking her home with me but I was already overweight (my luggage, not me).
In the taxi, on the way to the airport, with the rolled-up carpet sticking out of the window, I felt my heart welling up with immense gratitude for the extraordinary experiences I had in this mad country that will forever occupy a space in my heart. I knew that the full weight of the experience and its effect on my life would become clear once I saw my life back home in contrast to it. I was different, that much I knew. Would my family and friends notice? I was embarking on a new adventure, I realized. Going home.
Checking in at the airport was uneventful. The checking clerk looked at my passport and noticed that my visa was expiring that very same day. ‘Making full use out of your visa, hey?’. I looked at her and smiled, a loaded, all-knowing smile. ‘You don’t know the half of it, yaar’
I had an entire day to kill in Mumbai before catching the train to Delhi and spent it taking the Yamaha for a final service and finding a safe parking for it for a week until Stephen fetched it and started his own, brand new adventure. This didn’t take nearly as long as I’d hoped and to kill the time I went to the famous Regal Cinema and watched Harry Potter. It was the only movie showing and I soon discovered that at this cinema only one movie is shown per day (well, 4 shows a day but the same movie). After the movie I went for a farewell ride through Mumbai and ended up parking it outside the famous cricket ground (I forget the name) where impromptu cricket matches are held all day long. Have I mentioned that India is cricket-obsessed? I’m not a cricket fan but I was starting to get a little nostalgic (in a few days I would be heading back to South Africa) and thought it was an appropriate end to my last ride. As expected the cricket bored me so much that I fell asleep next to the field. I woke up about 2 hours later and realized that I had less than an hour to take the bike back to its parking and get a taxi to the train station. Plenty of time. I leisurely strolled to the spot where I’d left the Yamaha but the Yamaha was missing.
A nice man with orange henna hair told me that the traffic police had towed it because it was illegally parked. What? The seriousness of the situation hit me between the eyes and I went into a frantic panic looking around for anything resembling a traffic cop. I found one across the street who told me where I could find it. It was long walk but eventually after 30 minutes I arrived at the traffic department and saw my poor bike among hundreds of towed others. I asked around and ended up speaking to a very rude and impatient Punjabi traffic officer who demanded my license and registration papers. ‘Ok look’, I said (a little more forceful than I meant to) ‘I have it but I left it at my hotel’. This was the truth but he reacted like I had just slapped him in the face and insulted him severely. ‘You’re a foreigner! No foreigner is allowed to own property in India! You’re lying!’ he spat at me. A big part of me wanted to go fetch my registration papers, shove it in his face and say ‘Aha! I told you so’ but I simply had no time. I explained my situation to him as calmly as I could but his mind was set again me and my sorry plight. I’ve been alive long enough to know that in situations like these you need to go directly to the person in charge. By the time I found the chief commander’s office I was close to tears and by the time I shook his hand I was crying. I had 20 minutes to get my bike released, park it and find a taxi. Anyone who knows me well will know that not only do I cry easily but once I start crying it’s very hard to stop. The chief was a wonderfully patient and understanding man and within minutes he had released my bike, offered me a tissue and apologised for any ill-treatment inflicted by his department. ‘Please come visit us again’ he said. ‘Ok’ I said through my subsiding tears but secretly knew that as soon as I got on my bike and rode off, I would be gunning it out of there, never looking back.
I made it just by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin and was still trying to get my tears under control as I settled into my bunk on the train. Whew. Once I was relaxed enough to reflect I started thinking about the journey the Yamaha and I had been on. What an incredible yet incredibly hard adventure and one that I would not trade for anything. Goodbye old friend.
The day we left Kerela was my brother’s birthday. My brother has always had the misfortune of his birthday during exams or work (my birthday is on a public holiday) and it was a nice change that he would not have to study or work on his birthday. The day, however, would be spent travelling from Kochin to Delhi and then to Jodhpur and none of us relished the idea of spending anyone’s birthday on a plane or a train (especially not the train we were on a few days before). The plan was to fly to Delhi, spend a few hours there and have a celebratory birthday dinner before catching the over-night train to Jodhur. My brother insisted on an Indian buffet but we knew that he simply wanted Indian food and he wanted plenty of it and that was easy enough to arrange.
We arrived in Delhi around 17h00 and from the airport got a taxi straight to Old Delhi. If you want to experience the chaos of India in all its glory, Old Delhi is a good place to start. That’s exactly what we did and my brother and Mieke were plunged straight into the madness I experienced on my first night in India. Old Delhi is possibly more overcrowded, busy and noisy than a bee-hive and I watched the two of them with fascination and delight and wondered if I also looked as bewildered and amazed when I saw Old Delhi for the first time. There are a million things to see and everything you see is so extraordinary that you are always torn between wanting to take a photograph of it or just look and take it in. I understand that feeling very well, for the first few weeks in India my trigger finger itched uncontrollably.
We had dinner at a place called Karim’s in Old Delhi, situated right in the heart of the bee-hive. Karim’s is a very popular place among foreigners and locals because the food it great and the location fascinating. As an added treat, Shallu was also able to join us for the birthday dinner. It was great that I got the chance to introduce her to my brother and to Mieke and the dinner, although not a buffet, was just what we wanted. We ordered shahi paneer (a rich, tomato based cottage cheese curry and easily the tastiest dish in India), tandoori chicken, a spinach and potato curry and loads of naan. It was the perfect meal, my brother was a happy man and we would probably have stayed there all night but we had a train to catch. Earlier that day, Mieke pointed out that we had already taken a bus, a plane and a taxi and soon we would also be taking a train. All we needed was to take a cycle-rickshaw (surely then we’d be breaking some kind of record?). As it happened, we did take cycle-rickshaws to the train station because the tuck-tuck driver we approached asked a ridiculously expensive rate when he saw us (3 foreigners, plus luggage) and refused to be bargained down. The cycle-rickshaw wallah was much more reasonable. We quickly settled on a ridiculously inexpensive rate and got 2 rickshaws, one for me and the luggage and another for my brother and Mieke. The two of them immediately started taking photographs like Chinese tourists. It was a fun ride through the dark, bustling streets (it’s literally impossible to ride in a cycle-rickshaw and keep a straight face) and to top it off, a bird shat on my brother’s face en route to the station. It was hilarious and I felt deliriously grateful for the few crazy, delicious hours we got to spend in Delhi and suddenly, despite all the travelling, it felt like a birthday-day.
The train ride to Jodhpur was infinitely better than the one we took to Kochin. It’s amazing what a difference it makes if you’ve actually got a bed/bunk to sleep in as opposed to sharing a small floor space with dozens of strangers. We arrived in Jodhpur the next morning at 8h00 and were welcomed by my old friend Lucky who had a hard time hiding his excitement that Olga-the-girl-on-the-Yamaha was back and this time she brought friends. I knew he would be disappointed that I was back minus the Yamaha but he hid it well and I had to compliment Lucky, again, on his wonderful hospitality and on his exquisite little guesthouse. It really was a beautiful place and this time I had witnesses who agreed whole-heartedly. Our beautiful room-with-a-view however would only be ready after 10h00, when the guests occupying it checked out, so we strolled down to the market to have some breakfast.
There were many things I wanted to show my 2 companions and Jodhpur certainly was one of the places that I often wished I had someone to say ‘did you see that?’ to. I was deliriously happy that I could share this city with them and see it in a new light, through their eyes. During my first visit I ate mostly traditional Rajashtani food like kirchori (deep fried vetkoek-type thing filled with lentils and spices, served with a chickpea curry) and deep-fried jalapeno chillies filled with spiced potato. At the entrance to the market however there is an omelette shop (selling nothing but omelettes). Actually, there are 2 omelette shops right next to each other and, again, both claiming to be ‘the best’ or ‘the original’. I had a long chat with the omelette shop owner on the right on my first visit to Jodhpur and he assured me that his omelettes truly were the best and the original and that I shouldn’t be fooled by any other merchant making the same claim (especially not the one right next to him). I vaguely remembered that I promised to have an omelette but never did. This time, I had the ill fortune of running into him within an hour of my return to Jodhpur and had to re-confirm my promise to have an omelette. Later that day the 3 of us strolled over to the omelette shop for an omelette but we got more than we expected. Naturally I walked over to the omelette shop on the right but was intercepted by the omelette shop owner on the left who pointed an accusing finger at his competition and told me that his shop was the original. I looked at the guy who had made that very same claim (and had me convinced) but he avoided my eyes and I knew instantly that he had lied. The 2 shops were identical in almost every way but then I saw that above each shop was a banner. The one read ‘recommended by Lonely Planet Book’ and the other simply ‘recommended by Book’. Uh-hum.We went with the Lonely Planet-recommended shop and ordered the ‘famous’ masala omelette while the owner and his son shared their story with us. The owner had been making omelettes since the 70’s and a mention of his shop in the Lonely Planet had catapulted him into great fame and success. Eggs were his passion (fair enough, whatever makes you happy) and according to him and his slightly arrogant son he had perfected the art of omelette-making. I’ll be honest and say that the masala omelette I had was the best damn omelette I’ve ever had.The owner’s son should have just let the omelettes speak for themselves but he kept putting down their competition while we ate saying he was mentioned (not recommended) by an unknown Korean travel guide book and not the holiest of holies, the Lonely Planet, like they were thus implying that they were superior. Every now and then I’d glance over to the other shop and exchange a look with its owner that said ‘what was I supposed to do?’.
As with the lassis in Jaipur though, my custom was to try them all and decide for myself and so later that day I had another omelette, at the counterfeit omelette shop on the right, this time sharing uneasy glances with the Lonely Planet omelette shop owner’s son. I could see that he was eager, and a little anxious to hear my verdict. I finished the omelette, stood up, honestly declared that the 2nd omelette was better and left. No doubt the omelette debacle continues still but it felt good that I got to give an honest, objective opinion but in the end I realized that I was perhaps giving it too much thought and had to remind myself that it was, after all, only an omelette.
Later that day SAA (South African Airways) dropped a huge bomb on us (so to speak). In an email, they informed my brother that their return flight on the 21st of November had been cancelled. No explanation, simply cancelled.Two alternative dates were given, the 22nd or the 18th. Neither date suited them as both needed to be back in South Africa on the 22nd for work and should they fly on the 18th, our trip would have to be shortened by 3 days. After some angry phone-calls to the travel agent and a complaint/hate-mail to SAA we gave up, accepted defeat and set about changing our travel plans. On short notice like this all the trains were full and we had no option but to travel by bus to Udaipur and from Udaipur back to Mumbai, again by bus.
The only thing bumpier than a bus-ride through India would have to be a camel ride through India and I would not suggest either mode of transport to anyone planning to travel India. Not only was it uncomfortable but it was frighteningly dangerous (Indian bus drivers are terribly reckless) and much more expensive than the train. With every painful kilometre I grew less fond of SAA and by the time we made it to Udaipur we were completely spent. We were tired to the bone and semi-sleepwalking through Udaipur, shopping. We needed to sleep but, thanks to SAA, we had only a few hours in Udaipur and didn’t want to spend them sleeping.
Later that day we got on yet another bus and with heavy hearts settled into our sleeping seats for the long 18-hour haul down to Mumbai. It was now simply a race to make it to Mumbai by the 18th.We made it to Mumbai by the 18th but we were completely drained. We had no more energy, humour, excitement or tolerance and my two tired companions hit the hay within minutes of booking into our hotel. I was not that lucky. I needed to find Rikesh, the guy who was looking after the Yamaha and trying to find a buyer while I was gone. It was easy enough to find him but then he told me that he couldn’t find a buyer and I soon discovered that he had simply been using my bike as his own and probably had made no effort to find a buyer. I thanked him, a little irritated (he had not delivered on his promise and had not treated the Yamaha with the love and care he was supposed to) and immediately emailed Stephen. Stephen was a guy I met long ago In South Africa. He was coming to India and was interested in buying the Yamaha. He was planning to ride up North for 2 weeks and had lots of questions about bikes and the North of India. I answered his questions with my hard-earned knowledge and an eagerness to pass on what I’d learnt. I was very pleased that the Yamaha’s adventure was not yet over and it felt like the perfect end to my own biking adventure (passing it on to someone else). I couldn’t have planned it better myself.
That night my two, still-exhausted, companions climbed into a taxi and caught a flight back to South Africa (3 days earlier than planned). I was still furious with SAA and felt they were the cause of all the rushing, tiredness and frustration. They never did reply to our angry email. Bastards. Needless to say, the moment their taxi disappeared around the corner, I went to bed and slept like a dead person. In the end, I think my brother and Mieke did experience the India I was hoping they would, the exhilaration, wonder and frustration of it all in a compact, from the South to the North, 18-day nutshell. As for me, I had one more day with my beloved Yamaha before leaving for Delhi one last time. It turned out to be an unusual farewell, but that’s a story for another time.
