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Published: January 25th 2010
It's been a while, so let's start with a couple of announcements since we last spoke. I've received a fair amount of comments recently, in various forms.
Firstly, it has been suggested that my blogs are a becoming a bit long - not so easy to read in a sneaky spare minute at work. But bear in mind, they are written with the sole intention of being “toilet reading”. Designed to be printed out and read in one comfortable sitting, and I would feel honoured to contribute to such moments. As a word of warning, I only recommend this if you have a western throne toilet, not a hole-in-the-ground. Unless you can convince a friend to hold it for you?
Secondly, my last blog seemed to cause a bit of upset in the pro-Tibetite camp, inciting a torrent of complaints, “hate” mail and attacks on my character from all 3 corners of the globe. OK, so I'm exaggerating a touch, but my “disappointing attitude” towards a beautiful and spiritual people did ruffle the feathers of the Free Tibet pigeon.
Genuinely concerned I had said something truly offensive, I went back over my Tibet blog fully intending to rectify and
amend comments that might be construed insulting. Or at least to emphasise any irony. No obvious points of contention jumped out at me, but I would like to take this opportunity to defend myself anyway. I often forget that my blogs do not just go out to my friends and family and other people with a sense of humour. So to all those that fit in none of these categories, I apologise. You may not want to read on.
OK, on with the story...
I entered Nepal to a world of headlines. There was excitement building and buzzing around Kathmandu - Pizza Hut and KFC were moving into town. It was front page news for 3 days. The day I arrived was the day they opened their doors. To great fanfare, all the big names in Nepal were there for the opening. Like, er, some guy who advertises yoghurt and several others I've never heard of. Given neither Tenzing Norgay nor the Yeti was amongst them, I was unlikely to recognise any of Nepal's celebrities anyway.
I spent a full week in and around Kathmandu, in between Del leaving and my next mate, Mark, arriving to pick
up the baton. A whole free week to be as active and productive as I wanted. So many options were available - hiking, mountain climbing, adventure sports, cultural tours, sightseeing day trips. Instead I sat in coffee shops surfing the internet and sipping chai lattes. And gorging Chicken Zinger Burgers. After the long slog getting here, it was difficult to motivate myself to be active, what with needing to be nowhere specific and alongside so many rich culinary delights at my disposal.
I spent most of the time in the Thamel district, the tourist heartbeat of Kathmandu. Swarmed with touts trying to sell everything from hashish to rickshaw rides to tattoos to cheap North Fake clothing. And so everyone in Thamel speaks English, and the use of English is actively encouraged. There are plenty of posters highlighting the opportunity for Nepalis to advance their English learning in the UK. The University of Bradford has posted some billboards trying to attract Nepali students - shown with an accompanying photo of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament - which last time I checked were not in Bradford. But the underlying message is clear; Study English and you too could
make it to Bradford. Everyone needs a dream!
Maybe that would've been a shorter and simpler route in for the Gurkhas too. And in a turbulent couple of years all round, where Nepal has dethroned the monarchy, it was up to Joanna Lumley to take on the position of queen of the people. There's even an absolutely fabulous abandoned royal palace should she wish to reside alongside her loyal subjects. HRH Joanna the First is indeed a popular figure in Nepal, but Anglophilia is rife in general. The Union Jack is on display all over the place - painted on lorries, hanging from buildings, printed on t-shirts - although many of the locals I spoke to about it seem to think its the American flag.
After dethroning the monarchy Nepal is now a republic, but with no formalised constitution. The Maoists, who are the opposition party yet still hold a slight majority of seats, are stirring up all sorts of instability. Anti-government protests were in full swing whilst we were there and the Maoists called a national strike on the Sunday that Mark arrived. Anyone seen “working” was swiftly dealt with with the full force of the fist. This
included using machinery or driving any sort of transport. Unless you were taking tourists to and fro, which seemed to be acceptable non-picket-lining. We needed to go to the airport to find Mark's baggage (including his bike), which had failed to arrive the day before. There seems to be a trend that the people who have come out to meet me absorb the mishaps and incident that I usually attract single-handedly.
We were trying to find a lift to the airport, but the rickshaw drivers were clearly nervous about being seen out and about on the deserted roads. We spotted one driver chilling out in his rickshaw but instead of risking his well-being, I offered to pedal his rickshaw with him and Mark in the back. Using the power of the green dollar, he agreed to let me drive. Not as easy as you might think. Not only did the rickshaw have a fixed-chain (ie. no gears) and brakes that need to be yanked tight with string, but the steering pulled to the right and it was considerably wider than the bike I'm used to. All this came to the fore at a critical moment. As a young Nepali lad
was being pulled from his bicycle to be struck by the strikers, we came screeching down the hill, and despite the yelps from my passengers behind I was unable to avoid smashing into him. The rickshaw luckily escaped significant damage, and the angry mob turned their attention to us, before laughing and pointing, which probably saved the young lad further damage too.
Mark's gear did not arrive for a further day - it was stranded somewhere at Heathrow we later found out. When it did arrive someone had written “I know what you did” on the box. Mark claims to have no idea what that meant, but keep watching Airport with Jeremy Spake and I'm sure we'll all find out when they review the CCTV cameras.
Meantime we collected some token compensation from the airline for “essentials”. That turned out to be essential beers and essential custom made t-shirts. For about the price of a Colonel's Bargain Bucket we carefully crafted a design to be stitched onto some plain cotton shirts. Firstly we were measured for size. Let me give you a quick introduction to Mark: His hobbies include (and are currently limited to) supporting Pompey and preparing for
his own wedding. So it's going to be a tough year all round, one would think. You'll also notice how cycling is not amongst those hobbies. And at 6ft 7 he is technically a giant in these parts. Or to use the standard metric for height - 2 Del's. So his t-shirt was 6 sizes bigger than mine. The designs were identical save for our respective names, which were to be printed above a Nepali flag (the only non-rectangular national flag in the world, I might add). We had the word Nepal on the nipple, and I started drawing a bicycle for the piece d'resistance. The guy took one look at my scribble and decided he should stitch it without my artistic assistance. They came back perfectly. Even better than we could've imagined. Except one thing - our names were the wrong way round. Not normally a problem, but the Tim t-shirt looked like a gown on me and Mark was sporting a crop-top. We convinced the guy to re-print them, after all the M was already in place on both.
In between these above 8 paragraphs of faffing, we squeezed in some Kathmandu sightseeing. Mostly temples and more
temples. The most interesting being Pashupatinath and the Hindu funeral rites that take place on the adjacent banks of the dirty Bagmati river, where shrouded bodies are put on pyres and cremated.
Then on the move. Over the surrounding hills and down to the Terai, a valley that leads eastwards all the way to India. On the crowded and broken roads, both our bikes took a beating all week, with bits falling off, and countless scrapes and scratches from various objects - both static and moving. Not to mention gas explosions in the shower, the one-eyed kid who told Mark, “You have a nice eye”, or the unwavering audience that accompanied us the whole route to the Indian border.
With the elusive Indian stamp in my passport, I was ready to finally experience the mayhem I had heard so much about. A sensual overload of colours, noises, smells. And people. But the Darjeeling region, located in the disconnected northeast region of India is unlike the rest of the country. The small city is a colonial style hill station built on the green slopes of the Himalayan foothills. Famed for its tea plantations - a Harrods favourite - it
Peace!
Free Gorkhaland.
And Tibet whilst we're at itcould almost be described as civilised, dare I say. But to call it peaceful would be to ignore the civil unrest that was kicking off during our stay. In fact, angry demonstrations, protests and strikes have followed us in the last weeks. Just coincidence? This particular rally was to call for an independent Gorkhaland state for the Indian Gorkhas that make up the majority in north Bengal. Not surprisingly, the root cause of the discontent had resulted from British meddling. Our imperial ancestors from the East India Company had annexed the Darjeeling region from Nepal and bundled it under administration of the existing Bengal state. I think it was meant to be a temporary solution but that got surpassed by India's fight for independence. And one man above all others symbolises that struggle for an independent Indian nation, and his bespectacled, shaven-headed, little, brown image and portrait is visible everywhere - on banknotes, in offices, in temples, on car stickers, in the Gandhi museum. And that man is Ben Kingsley, of course. Or at least it looks a lot like him.
The current 28 Indian states were carved up along linguistic lines. India has over a hundred recognised languages,
majorly Hindi, Sanskrit, Urdu, Punjabi, Gujurati, Tamil, & Telugu.
Somewhat ignorantly I asked a Bengali guy what language they speak here in Bengal. “Bengali” he said. Ah, right you are, that makes sense.
“I'm from England. How do you say Hello?”
“Hello” he replied.
“Oh, and Thank you?”
“Thank you” he replied.
Sometime later, Mark pointed out that he thought I was asking how you say Hello and Thank You in English, which prevented me the embarrassment of thinking I could speak fluent Bengali down the road.
Whenever I arrive in a new country I try to learn the same key dozen or so words and phrases: Hello, Thank You, Please, Yes, No, 1, 2, 3, Where?, When?, How much?, Bed, Breakfast, Bicycle.
I have probably learned these in upwards of 20 languages, but only ever retain them for as long as I'm in the country before they disappear from memory without a trace. So don't test me.
Not long after we arrived in Darjeeling, we were told that the local authorities wanted all tourists out of town by Monday. It was now Sunday. The mob was about to turn heated. But from what we saw, it doesn't
VIPs
Vaguely Intruding Passers-by really matter whether they have national or provincial governance, as neither are really in control of India - TATA are. 95% of the cars and lorries are TATA; The satellite dishes, mobile phones, power, steel, even tea, all controlled by the TATA Group.
Mark it down as one of the world's future superpowers, along with China and Tesco.
The week with Mark had been pretty eventful, we even made a list of strange incidents, but none could compare with the last day. After an 80 km ride down the hill from Darjeeling to a town near the airport, we stopped to watch a football match which had drawn a crowd of thousands. It was the final of the Friendship Cup - competed between West Bengal's best teams and sponsored by the West Bengal police. The quality of the match was surprisingly good, especially given the non-quality of the pitch it was being played on.
Spotting us on the far grassy knoll, a middle-ranking officer wandered over and said he came with an invitation from Bengal Police for us to join the delegates in the stand. Sweaty and under-dressed, we accepted and sat down with the big boys of Bengal.
The Chief Inspector of the entire West Bengal police force arrived, was introduced to us, and it gave us a first hand chance to see Indian hierarchy in full flow. Whatever he said, his minions agreed with. He addressed Mark,
“You must be 7 foot tall”
All the surrounding constables started nodding and concurring. “Yes sir, he's 7 foot, for sure sir”.
Mark was the only one who said otherwise, but his objections fell on deaf ears. If the Chief thinks you're 7 foot, then you are 7 foot. That's how it works.
The Chief then clicked his fingers in the general direction of the masses and demanded, “Bring our guests tea”.
To which the second-in-command sent orders to one of the uniformed officers, who in turn grabbed a young lad by the ear, who was trying to watch the game, “Boy, fetch tea”.
The boy fetched tea, we drank, and then at half-time were invited to take supper with the owner of the tea-estate, and the richest landowner in town. Over supper, which was a fine spread of dhals, curries, salads and fruits, we were asked if we would be so kind to be the presentation committee at the
conclusion of the match. We of course agreed. We returned to watch the remainder of the game. By which stage the local media had got wind of us and were taking far too many photos in our direction, instead of focusing of the ensuing penalty shoot-out. As the victorious team and man-of-the-match were preparing to receive their trophies, we were introduced to the crowd by the MC. At least 5 times.
“It is with great honour that our guests from the UK are here today. Mr Tim and Mr Mark will be presenting the winning trophies...”
That evening we had free roam of Siliguri, and the police force were in our pocket, making sure our wants were met and our paths were smooth. The police chiefs of the neighbouring districts were also told to facilitate our onward journey and so the entire ride through Bengal was a procession of uniformed escorts, fast-tracked queues and general celebritydom.
Mark flew home next day, and I continued onwards to Bangladesh. If India was not the human chaos I had been led to expect, Bangladesh more than made up for that.
Bangladesh is a country half the size of Britain but with
the 7th largest population in the world (150 million). And so it is one of the most densely populated countries. In fact, if you ignore all the pseudo-countries like Monaco, Hong Kong and Singapore, then it is the most densely populated. There are people absolutely everywhere. And as a tourist I attract a crowd at the best of times, so in Bangladesh there is no escape from an audience of dozens. When I'm adjusting my bike, when I've paused to read the map, when I'm eating, when I'm going for a roadside comfort break. It's like something from the Truman Show, but without the remote control to pause the action. As with Nepalis and Indians, the Bangladeshis will just stand and stare at you, which is not a habit that sits comfortably with a Westerner. But habits and customs vary everywhere and you either need to adapt or risk causing offence. For example, in Bangladesh you are expected to wear appropriate clothing and to eat with your right hand, as your left hand is assumed to be used during toiletry activities. It took me a while to realise this, and possibly my left-handed eating in the first few days caused
perturbation. I'm expected to conform to Bangla standards, but at the same time tolerate the invasion of my personal space. Well, I've got news for them - although I did use my right hand to eat, as required of me, unbeknown to them I continued to wipe with it too. Who's laughing now?!
But an over-population and dirty left hands are not Bangladesh's only problems. Cyclones, floods, droughts, monsoons and earthquakes (there were two when I was here) devastate the land, and when none of these are wreaking havoc, there's plenty of man-eating tigers lurking in the mangroves of the Sunderbans to continue the human plunder.
I cycled south past 30 million or so people on the road to Dhaka, where I met up with another 14 million inhabitants. The city is built on the muddy Buriganga river and is a spectacle of contrasting human lives and fortunes. An estimated 800,000 rickshaws ply the streets, somehow ducking and swerving head-on collisions, especially from untrained upstarts who insist on driving each time. Hello!
From Dhaka to Chittagong, Bangladesh's second city. I thought my travels had hardened and numbed me to poverty and desperate human conditions. But some of the appalling things I saw in Chittagong re-ignited my sympathies. I witnessed at least three dead bodies left to decompose on the roadside, one of which was the legless corpse of a child. Add to this, kids fishing in sewage for anything of possible value; an eight year old girl camped under a cloth acting as mother for her orphaned baby brother. I felt helpless and undeservedly privaleged as I skirt on through this world - something to try to keep me going when I THINK I'm having it tough.
The route down the Bay of Bengal to Cox's Bazar and on to the Myanmar border was quite scenic, and allowed me to deflect my attention from the haunting images of yesterday. The 150 mile stretch of beach that passes Cox's Bazar is the longest sand beach in the world, and a perfect place to spend my last nights of this leg relaxing with Bangladesh's elite.
Unfortunately the border between Bangladesh and Myanmar (or Burma to you imperialists) marked a dead-end as far as overland travel was concerned. There is no international passage by either land or sea - legally at least - and Burma is not the sort of country you want to be found in without a valid permit. As someone said to me,“trust you to have the whole world to play with and still find a dead-end”. The best I could do was touch the border and spend a couple of weeks and several thousand miles transporting myself circuitously around to the other side. Instead of paying a small fortune to courier my bicycle all the way round with me, just for it to move 50 metres forward from the same spot, I tried to convince some border guards to pass it through to their counterparts on the other side. They didn't.
Happy New Year. Keep movin' on,
Tim
www.fullcycle.org.uk
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Being a regular subscribler to the Hard Nipple Times - Nepals No.1 selling newspaper I am pretty up to speed with Nepali breaking news. I am suprised you didnt pick up on the biggest news story for years - forget KFC and Pizza Hut, it was the large number of regal visitors at the airport at the same time - Kings everywhere!