Wednesday, January 13: The Bullet Train to the Beach

Heavier than the bike and my gear have been the usual uncertainties that accompany a new adventure. The Bullet quickly left my mind. She was nothing to worry about, it was obvious after only a few kilometers. But that other uncertainty, the one in my head, was heightened once the sun fell red into the landscape and left my in total darkness for the last 20 km of the journey. The Bullet thumped along, sure and strong, holding to the road as if she'd been sent from heaven to guide me to my first night's destination. With her at the road, I was at the lookout, like the sailor at watch in the crowsnest. One can spot the lampless trucks by the blinking altars on their dashboards. Large slow movements are sacred cows, and low jagged running are roads are the dogs, who stick to the roadside. It became blacker and blacker and I wondered if I would make it, having broken my most important rule in the first day.

I arrived in Mamallapuram just a few hours ago, feeling like I've put 480 instead of only 48 km on the Bullet. Riding through the city was truly an adventure, much more complex than China. If you can imagine a vehicle, it is on the road in India. Moreover, it isn't following any particular rule except that it blows its horn constantly and drives on the left, unless inconvenient. But twenty minutes out of the city and I was flying, the thump thump of the Bullet like a heartbeat on wings.

Everywhere is the smell of chili peppers, dust, and flowers. All day I have loitered, waiting patiently and impatiently for things to get done. I have sat and observed a woman seated on the sidewalk surrounded by flowers for garlanding Hindu gods, dashboards, and the long black hair of almost every girl that passes. I have lunched in a crowded restaurant, everyone hurrying through their "meal," which means that an aluminum plate the size of a medium pizza and about an inch deep is thrown at you. It's lined with a banana leaf cut to size, and edged with ten small aluminum bowls of this and that -- vegetables, pickle, yogurt. Soon a man comes around with a steaming bowl of rice and slaps a big spoonful into the middle of the plate. Two of the small bowls are for pouring onto the rice and mixing it up with your fingers. The rest -- well, I don't quite know yet. But I was grateful for the yogurt because most of it was rather spicy.

It was Mr. Pasupatheswarn, Enfield's export manager, who led me to this first traditional South Indian meal. He was impatient as I (I was gratified to note -- I thought I was the only one), having had some personal business himself in the afternoon. The clock ticked and I asked him about the possibility of getting away today. We'd been waiting a few hours at the Enfield dealer's place in Chennai for the man to get back with my license number, and it didn't look likely. "When everything becomes private instead of government," he said, "then one will be able to make plans." The woman working at the dealership office rolled her eyes and nodded. India is "second world," an awkward position for those who must negotiate between one and three.

Finally, at 4:30 pm (6 hours later), the license number was called in from the police station (thank you, whoever was waiting in line for me there!) and it was painted onto the front and back iron surfaces of the bike. Oh, how India has tested my patience already today! I'd been sheltered in Delhi the past few days, hardly even jetlagged and taken by private car from my cush hotel by Indo Asia Tours around to all the sights. Now I'm on my own, bike, guesthouses, gasoline, maintenance, sights, Internet connection, and survival.

I was truly ready to go. I'd signed all the necessary papers and even tested my riding skills in the parking lot, much to the amusement of the local shopkeepers who gathered at doorways and giggled amongst themselves. I felt confident. Sort of. When the time came, though, it took all the nerve I had in me to turn out of that parking lot into traffic. A multitiered stream of pedestrians, bikes, scooters, motorcycles, bicycle rickshaws, motor rickshaws, taxis, ancient white Ambassadors, vans, jeeps, buses, and trucks of every size and color seemed hell-bent on keeping me from it. I saw a break and went for it. But a few meters down the road everything suddenly became too complex for my American highway-trained mind, and I panicked, hit the shifter instead of the brake, and stalled.

Horns blew from everywhere. I struggled to remain calm, and to remember the starting sequence. Put it in neutral. Push in the compression lever with the left thumb. Do not, under any circumstances, give it any throttle. Hit the kickstart (with the right foot) about a quarter of the way down until the alternator meter jumps to the middle between red and green. Let it come back up, and then kick it down smoothly, with force. I'd failed in this procedure several times in the parking lot, but in this critical moment I succeeded, just as Mr. Pasupatheswaran ran to my side, having monitored my progress. I must say I was proud to have succeeded in this moment of stress, and I hope he has confidence in me now. We said another goodbye and then I found my opportunity. There was no time to waste. A bus stopped and at a crowd of people, leaving traffic stalled behind. I entered the stalled stream and became part of it as it moved ahead, following a motorcyclist who was going about my speed and stuck to him until he turned off. Alone again, I balked at a traffic light. Was this the way? Or that? All the directions they'd given me at the dealer flew out of my head. The police officer didn't even blink when I asked him the way to Mamallapuram. When I stalled her again he reached over and hit the compression lever, kicked it over, and said "move along." I was off again.

Suddenly was Mamallapuram where, immediately, I feel right at home. There are more hippies here than in San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district: dreadlocked Israelis, dressed-down Italians, and sunburned Germans. My room is a cement box in a guesthouse near the beach, my neighbors a newly-arrived American and two drunken Brits wearing sunburns and guitars. I am frightened, exhausted, and relieved. Everyone nearby swarms me and the Bullet, completely impressed. Yes, it's so totally cool it almost hurts, but for now I put her on the center stand, turn off the gas valve, taken the key with me, and collapse for an hour in a bed under a speeding ceiling fan before adding to the local color.

Also see the Mamallapuram photo gallery

RETURN TO DISPATCHES

RETURN TO HOME