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Published: March 16th 2010
It's 9 am in the morning, I've been riding for 2 hours through the Thar desert and the morning cold has chilled me to the bones. I feel hungry and I deserve a stop, A nice little place along the road announces "Brak Fast". I don't have much time, so that sounds all right with me. I pull over and a man welcomes me. I ask for the menu, but he looks at me not understandingly. I want to point out something in the counter, but it turns out to be empty. I bring my hand to my mouth and say "food, restaurant"? His face clears up. "Aha, restaurant" he says. He shows me a little building at the end of a dump. Now it's my turn to react surprised. "That restaurant?" I say, bringing my hand to my mouth again as to imitate me eating? He says "restaurant", and pulls me along at my hand. Arriving at the little block, I see he has brought me to the toilets! I say " que pasa aqui tio?, what are you doing?" He smiles at me, bringing his hand to his mouth making a brushing movement and says "colgate". Boy this is
gonna be a long morning I think and walk back to the motorbike. I am really hungry however and I ask him in a last attempt "chapati? bread?". "Aha, chapati he says", seeing the misunderstanding. He tells me to sit down and after 10 minutes brings me one little dry cracker, the size of one patata frita! For a moment I think he's pulling my leg, but he looks serious. I am so hungry that I even ask him how much. He says 50 rupees. I don't want to continue this "dialogo de besugos" and put the helmet on. As I'm hitting the kick start I hear him ask me "you German?". I sigh. "Yes, me German".
After Udaipur, I left the beaten track to take a road through the mountains to go to Jodhpur. The road looks promising and will bring me through many authentic villages. As I arrive in the first place however, I see people are still colored like after Happy Holi. But Happy Holi was like 9 days ago! So this must be a different festival. Trying to exit the village, I come to a roadblock. People have thrown up a wall of stones and
Barbershop
Barbershops are great here. They include a headmassage.any vehicle wanting to pass has to pay a "contribution". Kids are holding out their hand to receive the money. With the other hand, they hold bottles of colored water and powders. A quick look on the map shows me that I'll have to pass like 40 of these villages. I learn that in the small villages, they celebrate Happy Holi 10 days in a row! In the first village, I escape as they are all concentrated around a car. I manage to get through. In the next places however, people become more aggressive. I really can't and won't pay every time I come to a roadblock. This is getting ridiculous, so I decide to use all my off road skills that I remember from the last Morocco trip. Basically that's full gas forward and try not to fall. Nobody wants to be hit by the crash bars, so people jump away. I always found a crack in the dam and could get through, not after receiving a full blow of powder and water over me however. I arrive after a long day in Jodhpur, colored like a clown again. People are staring at me. Arriving at the guesthouse, the
first thing they asked me was if I hadn't had a shower in more than a week.
The guesthouse is called "Hillview" It was a recommendation of Tito and I really had a fantastic time there. It's on the way to the fort, offering a great view over "the Blue City". It's a family run place, but the chief of the house is Safron. I guess she's around 40, strong and firm looks. She picked me up at the main gate on here scooter and I followed her through the narrow lanes of the old city, the both of us claxoning like mad to make our way through a sea of people and animals. The place is at the end of a very steep path of potholes, cobblestones and rocks. I throw the bike in first gear and storm up the hill. I turn of the engine, the sweat streams of my face, my heart is pounding. She smiles at me and says "you good driver". I'm really getting the hang of this Indian traffic I think.
In the evening she invites me for a game of chess. I have to disappoint her, but I have a chai
as she's eating her meal. "Mutton" she says. I'm Muslim. "I eat beef". In a Hindu country, that's like saying "I eat babies". She was 17 when she left home to join the army. She became one of the best snipers, but life was hard there. So she came back to Jodhpur and opened her own guesthouse and joined politics. A lot of work for one women. She never got married. Doesn't have children. But all the kids of the family hang around her. Politics disappointed her. More then anywhere, it's a man's world. She tried to introduce dustbins in the city, but people kept throwing their garbage where ever they felt like. The day after, untouchables come to pick it up. Or the cows eat it.
I got to know a few nice people there too. I met this Yoannis, a French guy with Greek roots. He plays the Sarangi, a traditional Indian instrument and follows a course in a small village nearby. He explained me that many people in Rajasthan use opium on a daily basis. In the mountains, I had noticed the opium fields already. People use it for ceremonies like at a birth or a
making bangles
melting a cone of resin, rolling the exact length, cut, roll and ready marriage, but many of them find every day a good occasion. He told me that one of the world masters in Sarangi lives in Varanassi. He wanted to invite him for a concert in the UK, so arranged everything for his flight. Only, the musician wanted to bring his bread of Opium along. Yannis explained him that such thing is impossible and they would arrest him at the airport. He suggested he goes and see a doctor to get a substitute, like methadon or whatever. The musician came back the day after, happy like a child, He showed a prescription of the doctor stating "hereby I declare in my function of a doctor that Mr X is indeed hooked to opium and needs his daily dose. Therefore, I allow him to bring his opium on the plane". Obviously, he never made it to the UK.
After Jodhpur, I drove further West, towards Pakistan. My goal was Jaisalmer, a little border town on the former trade route from India to the Central Asian Empires. The town got so rich that it is strewn with Haveli's. These Haveli's were houses the size of a small palace, built by the rich people
Enfields have strong frames
this guy makes a royal enfield look small of that time. We're talking the 17th century basically. Their facades are beautifully carved, the craftsmen were Muslims, the owners very often Brahmans. Therefore, the style is a nice mixture of Hindu and Muslim elements. And many of them have mirrors on the ceiling to reflect the little light that entered. Those mirrors all came from... Belgium! It's known as Belgian glass and came along on the backs of camels.
Tito had told me that there are many touts in Jasailmer and people can be pushy. I didn't even arrive in the city walls and youngsters are following me on their scooters, waving with brochures of cheap hotels. I feel like a rock star followed by Paparazzi. I park the bike on the town square and decide to take a look before deciding where to sleep. I have a drink and get talking to two guys, I recognize the accent immediately. I say, "miskienst kunme westvloams klapn", in my own town dialect. "Moa vent toa, von wo zi je hi?". They are from Brugge, the first Flemings I meet here.They recommend me a few places inside the fort and I check it out. Tourism must feel the crisis very
hard here, because the prices for lodging have plummeted. The competition is fierce, many guesthouses, no tourists. I pay 100 Rs for a nice room that should cost 300 Rs at least. A record. The economic crisis, the swine flu and also, the terrorist threat. Pakistan is around the corner and they are the bare devil. The whole area is full of military bases. Soldiers from all over the nation do their service here, fighting the homesickness and the boredom. The good thing is that all this military bases are connected by great roads. I like the city a lot. People are pushy indeed, definitely about getting you on the back of a camel. That's the big business here, trips from 1h to 1 week through the Thar desert. After hours in the seat of my motorbike, the last thing I want is a bumpy ride on a camel. Most tourists don't leave Jaisalmer without doing it however and for most of them it was a nice experience. I go and check out the surrounding countryside, but get to sand dunes where the road ends. The town itself is beautiful, many Haveli's are in a state of decay, others are
beautifully repaired and host luxury hotels. In general, there is a laid back feeling and the views from the walls of the fort over the desert are magnificent.
And now what? I can't get further east, or I get in terrorist country :-) I consider for a moment to put the motorbike on the train, 'cause it still leaks some oil. After Bundi, I went to another mechanic in Udaipur, but after a few hours, it started leaking again. In Jodhpur, Safron brought me to a third mechanic, but same thing there. They all changed a joint, meant to separate the gearbox from the carter block. Later it will turn out that this joint apparently comes in various diameters. I am fed up with mechanics and decide that i will just fill it up with oil and keep on riding like that. I decide it's time to go North, but I still consider to go first to Varanassi and Nepal. I doubt, and I still have time to doubt. There are 330 km between me and Bikaner. Bikaner is still lining the Great Thar desert, only more North East. 330 km is too much to cover in one day,
jodhpur
the blue city under the fort the manager of my guest house assures me. "You'll have to sleep in a truckers motel". The idea of sleeping in this kind of joint doesn't appeal to me, so I leave early in the morning and hope the engine holds. I know that in between, I will find few villages in case I need help. Everything goes fine, I enjoy the endless landscape of sand, rocks, dunes and a bleak sun is slowly heating up the world. Vultures are circling above the occasional dead sheep and cows along the road. The holy status of a cow is apparently not guaranteed in case of a confrontation with a truck. I enjoy the thumping of the engine. Suddenly, the engine stutters, and then picks up again. My heart skips a beat. Then again, thump thump thump pats..... and then the big silence. I come to a halt in the great emptiness. I put the petrol valve on "reserve" and kick the kick start like a madman. Nothing. I open the tank and can't believe my eyes. Dry! What a beginners mistake. I took petrol in Jaisalmer, so or the guy of the station did not give me the promised amount, a
one of the forts rooms
decorated with christmas balls as a variation on the usual mirrors, to reflect the little light. common practice, or somebody tapped the petrol out of my tank last night. Anyway, I should have checked before leaving. To late to regret however. I take of the helmet, the sun knocks me on my head. I start pushing the loaded bike forward. Behind me, I remember there was nothing. A sheep looks at me but sees nothing. It's eyes are dried up in the empty sockets. And after 20 minutes, I see a little colored dot appearing in my mirror. A man dressed in white with a turban on a little motorbike appears at the horizon and he comes my way. I flag him down and need no words to explain the problem. He parks the bike near mine and orders me to drink up my remaining water. He taps a liter of petrol out of his bike into the empty bottle and a minute later, the Dracula Ye Ye feels like riding again! The man leads me to the next petrol station, 25 km further. I want to pay him, but he just accepts the 50 Rs for the petrol. We shake hands and we give each other our biggest smiles.
I drive into Bikaner around
deeper into the Thar desert
on the way from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer 2pm. What was all this about not being able to make it in one day. I'm riding the Dracula Ye Ye man! In 20 minutes, I find the sweetest people from the Youth hostel and park me and my bike in the secluded garden. A little flake of oil appears under the bike. If I want another ride like this tomorrow, I have to find a mechanic first. It becomes a habit, but you never have to look long. There are few Bullets left and every big town has a "Bullet specialist". The one of Bikaner is considered especially good. I sure hope so. Upon arrival there, the guy gives it a good look and with the help of the only neighbor who speaks some English, we agree on a price. He guarantees me he can stop the leak. We accept the challenge. I don't have a choice. He is rather old, full of experience I think. He sits down on a little stool, like a milkmaid milking a cow. Half of the engine is stripped. He points at the same oil valve, the same joint that has been replaced two times already in one week. I sigh. I explain
him that the joint is new. He indicates however that the diameter is not good and places a smaller one, sealing everything well. He throws all the pieces back on their place and with a last efforts tightens all the bolts. We go together for a test ride. All looks fine. We are a few days later now and it doesn't leak anymore. At least, not there. Now it leaks from the kick start, but that's for later.
The day after, encouraged by my earlier achievement, I decide to cover the 350 km between Bikaner and Jaipur, secretly hoping I can even get further. I really don't like Jaipur, also because it's traffic is hell and I don't want to get stuck in it again. My final destination is Agra, where it all started. And then the circle would be round and I can start a new one. Pieter has called me in the meanwhile. Pieter is a Belgian friend I know through the friends of Barcelona. He follows several times a year a music course in Varanassi. His instrument is the tabla and he found a master here, willing to pass on the secrets of classic Indian music
to him. The foresight of meeting a friendly face appeals to me and despite the horror stories of Varanassi, I want to check out the holiest city of India. It's also one of the oldest cities in the world.
I start out early in the morning again to enjoy the morning cold, making sure my tank is full this time. I reach Jaipur by noon, a record. But then I realize there is no bypass around Jaipur. The only way to get to Agra is all through the city! I arrive at the North gate and the horror spreads out before me. The sun is merciless. I move slowly forward, hitting bicycles, riskshaws, cars, pedestrians, cows...Playing with the first gear all the time, hoping the gear cable will hold. And the engine won't heat up. And I won't faint from sweating to death... I ask several times for Agra. All the time, I get this little nod of the head, the little tilt from left to right, meaning "yes", "no", "straight on", "maybe".... I follow the sun south and arrive after 1,5 nerve wrecking hours at the south gate. The world opens up again. I drive faster and slowly my
yoga for the advanced
detail from Jain temple, Jaisalmer clothes dry around my body.
I make it to Agra by 6pm and arrive by 7 pm in the street of my guesthouse, in the area around the Taj Maghal. Suddenly, three policemen jump upon me. They grab for the key of my bike. It's dark,I'm tired and not in the mood to play, so I push them away. Not something they like. Somebody comes in between to explain that around the Taj Maghal, no motorized vehicles are allowed. The terrorists, remember. After a whole hassle, I am allowed to walk my bike for the last 100 m and can park it inside the hotel, next to the kitchen. A bit later, a police officer who didn't forget my reaction and who wants to show how important he is orders me to open up everything. I start with my dirty loundry and I can immediately close up everything again. He points at the metal box on the side of the bike. I say "tools". He looks at me and says "toolbox". I repeat "toolbox" and he's satisfied. The hot shower feels like heaven and I enjoy a good meal from the terrace.
The day after I make preparations
for bringing me and the motorbike by train to Varanassi. It's 650 km, but through very densely populated cities and the roads are of bad quality, for what I've heard. There are 4 stations, but after a while I understand the system and buy a ticket for the night train at 11.30 pm. For the bike however, I have to go to the parcel office at the end of the station. The guy there tells me, without looking up from his calculations, come back at 9 pm. Plenty of time. I leave the backpacks in the station and dressed up in sandals and T shirt, I drive around, Indian style. I decide to check out the biggest fort of India, something I did not do during my first visit. At 9 sharp, I appear back in the parcel office. The same guy is still calculating. Is he slow or is there so much to calculate here I wonder. He doesn't look at me, but upon my question where I can leave the bike, his colleague tells me "bike no". I repeat his words "bike no" and sigh. There we go again. I stay calm and explain the story. After a
long unnecessary discussion, the guy gives in and says that the bike can come along. But now another colleague decides to annoy me. While filling in the paperwork, he says he needs a copy of the registration papers. I ask him how I'm gonna get a copy of that. He waves a hand and says "outside". I know they are fishing for bakshish, but I have plenty of time still and hand them the papers like that, saying "no outside, no copy". They smile and say it's ok. I don't feel too reassured however, but at 11 they take the bike and roll it in the train. I rush for my compartment, all the way to the other end of the train. I am exited, I've heard a lot about Indian trains and have formed a romantic idea. People are hitting each other to get a place in the 2nd class. I have "sleeper class" however and finally find my wagon. I find my name on a paper hanging on it, next to the letter 24. I enter and what I see is not nice. It's like entering a rabbit farm. Beds of tiny sizes all over, one upon the
other, stapled like cages. Some are bigger, some are tiny. 24 is a tiny one, just under the roof, under two enormous ventilators. There are big windows that don't close, doors stay open. I deposit the backpacks and my helmet and see there is no more space for me on the bed. I ask a man if I can shove the backpacks under his bed. No problem, but I'll have to keep an eye on them at every station. Theft of luggage happens regularly on this line. The helmet and my valuables find a place on the bed, I pull myself up on my arms and work my way in between the two ventilators. I can't believe how small this is. Again I think, what would Manel do in this situation :-)? I lie cramped up, my knees pulled up to my chin. People laugh when they see me. In the beginning I laugh back, later I just pull the sleeping bag over my head and close my eyes in an attempt to sleep. It's hopeless however, so I read the whole night. At 5 am, people jump on the train, shouting "Hindustani Newspaper!!", and another one follows shouting "Chai!!
Chai!!" The others that managed to sleep pretend to keep on sleeping. The couple next to me is Spanish. I start talking to them, Sergio and Irene. Great people. She's from Canarias, he's from Madrid. I ask them to check my stuff and go for a walk. I looked for the restaurant wagon, but people kept on waving their hand when I asked. Turns out there is no such thing on this train. I enjoy the green landscape passing by through the open doors, see farmers going to their field. Deers are enjoying the first sunlight and there are palm trees and wet rice fields, a welcome change after weeks of desert. Chatting with Sergio and Irene and enjoying a few teas, we arrive at 12.35 pm sharply in Varanassi. As promised on the train ticket.
I am glad to see men rolling my motorbike out of his compartment. I show the papers and they let me pack my stuff on it. If I ask them how to get outside, I am in the middle of a network of rails, trains rolling by, they answer again with a little tilt of the head. I follow the coolies who are
loaded
many trucks are loaded far beyond what a sane person would consider safe. I find many capsized. Road to Bikaner carrying big packs on their heads to the waiting train. I drive over the rails, looking left and right like a maniac for oncoming trains and make it to the other end. And then again the usual looking for a guesthouse. I stop for a Coke, take the Lonely planet and start calling around. I dream of a nice bed, but the first 6 places I call are full. Then there is one place that says "maybe". He asks me how many we are. I answer I am alone. Silence. I say I came driving on a Royal Enfield motorbike. "Sorry sir, no room". I don't know what part he didn't like, but I'm back at zero. Finally I am lucky and after a half hour drive through the hot crazy traffic of Varanassi, I arrive in the neighborhood of my guesthouse. It takes me another 15 minutes through very narrow alleys. Sometimes I have to wait to let a buffalo pass, coming back from a bath in the Ganges. The place is on the border of the river and I have a great view over the ghats, these ghats are bathing places, where people come to wash themselves and
to drink the holy water of the city of Vishnu. A bit upstream, they are burning bodies of deceased people. Many Hindus come to die here, reaching thus salvation from the circle of reincarnation. Their bodies are burned on pyres, the wood is sold locally and the quality of the wood depends on the caste the dead person belonged to. Sandalwood for Bragmins. The ashrams behind the ghats are full with people waiting for their last hours. On the banks of the river, people swarm together to pray, to bath, to practice yoga, to beg or to give to beggars,... All very nice material for pictures, but quite a confrontation. The water for example has like 5000 times the allowed amount of E.Coli, a bacteria indicating the contamination with excrement. A bath in the water should be lethal for any normal person, but here they are swimming in it and drinking from it as parts of corpses and dead animals float by. Remarkable.
I contact Pieter and we find each other in the center. I show him the bike. He himself has a 1150 gs back in Belgium and he admits the envy he feels. In a month however
loaded 2
a lot of transport in Rajasthan is still done by camelcart he will go on a trip to Slovenia on his bike, so that should ease the pain. He brings me through the narrow streets of the bazaars and we have a drink in a nice lounge bar, overlooking the whole riverbank. A couple next to us seems to overhear our conversation. They are from Ghent. Pieter is delighted, "me too I'm from Ghent" he says. "I know" she says. His accent gave him away.
After a while he has to go back to continue his lessons. I go for an evening stroll and find the city one of the dirtiest places I've ever been in, with cows shitting all over, kids running through the shit and people selling shit all over. But what a fascinating place! It's a place of scams, betrayal, lies, prayer, hypocrisy and history. I like it. I sweat like hell. Time for a lassi. Hope I can load up the pictures. In the afternoon, I go and pick up Pieter for a ride on the bike.
From here on, I will go to Kathmandu in Nepal. At least, that's the plan for the moment.
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Texas
Héla man, waar zitte gij daar?ge moet goe zot zijn!maar t'is wel indrukwekkend,een ganse ervaring. hier in Texas is alles prima,de kleine Charlie is ongelooflijk lief en deugniet, veel groetjes van ons allen,wees toch maar heel voorzichtig; ma en pa