Searching the streets, desperate to find somewhere fast, I noticed a Western woman stop, stare at us and yell out. ”Hey, Rachel, Garry!” It was Crystal, the Frenchwoman we had met in Goa when we were buying the bike. After remarking on how small the world really is, we told her we were in a rush to find a place, so Garry could get his head down. ”We’re staying just around the corner,” she told us. “It’s not bad, and it’s cheap.” This sounded just fine to us, so we followed her there and booked in. Garry, by now, had a raging temperature and crawled straight into bed. He slept for a few hours and, though he was still weak when he woke up, the fever appeared to have subsided. He dragged himself up later that evening to see the majestic Mysore Palace. Until independence, it was the residence of the Maharajas of Mysore, and every Sunday night between 7 and 8pm it is lit up with thousands of light bulbs. This was something neither of us wanted to miss, and though I’m sure Garry would have happily stayed in bed, he was glad he came along. Our time in Mysore was lovely. There was plenty to see and in the evenings, we ate together with Kevin and Crystal. “By the end of this trip, I’ll have seen very little of India, but I’ll be able to write a book about the inside of garages throughout the country!” Kevin joked bitterly. He and Crystal had had nothing but bother with their Enfield since they had bought it at Anjuna market. Almost every day, it needed something else done to it. ”Any chance of a swap?” he laughed ”I don’t think so,” we replied, feeling sorry for them, but also very thankful. This could so easily have been our bike.
Our smugness came too soon. A few days later, as we were cruising though Mysore, en route to the palace, a young guy on a pushbike swerved right out in front of us. Garry slammed on the brakes but it was too late. We crashed right into him, knocking him over, and buckling his bike. A few seconds of terror ensued. A bit shocked, but not hurt, he got up and pulled his bike over. ”Are you okay?” Garry asked, obviously concerned. Before we had the chance to pull our bike over, a man came running out onto the road and stood in front of us. ”You go nowhere. Must pay compensation.” ”Excuse me. Can I move the bike, please?” Garry asked. The man held the handlebars, shouting, “Pay money now!” He refused to move, getting more and more aggressive and obnoxious. By this time the bike had been swarmed by onlookers - some shouting, some just giggling. They would not let us through even to move the bike off the road, and by now the crowds had caused the traffic to almost come to a standstill. People were getting out of their cars to see what was happening. For about fifteen minutes, we tried, in vain to reason with them, but nobody was listening to a word we had to say. The words “Pay, pay”, “Money, money” and “Compensation, compensation” just kept getting repeated in an almost frenzied fashion. They were closing in tighter; I could feel myself about to explode in fury, but had to quell it. If they sensed anger, they would probably find it all the more entertaining! This was starting to get more and more surreal. The poor guy that we had knocked over was just standing there, looking rather meek.
Eventually a policeman appeared, but did nothing to control the mayhem. The fact that the crowd was causing an obstruction in the middle of a busy street, seemed not to bother him in the slightest. Trying to explain to him what had happened proved futile, as our voices were drowned out by the screaming of what must have been about fifty other versions from the crowd. ”Come to station,” the policeman finally ordered us. We had to wheel our bike up the street, following the policeman, with the crowd in tow. People were coming out of their shops to join what now looked like a demonstration! Some semblance of civility reigned at the police station where the chief of police managed to shoo most of the crowd away. The instigator was still shouting out his version of events, with the cyclist standing there saying nothing. They spoke among themselves for a bit. ”You must pay this man 100 rupees,” the policeman ordered.
Garry put 100 rupees into the young guy’s pocket and we left, thankful it was all over. Back on the street, there were still a few stragglers. Getting back on the bike, we noticed that the indicator had been snapped off. Too tired to even be bothered about this, we drove off. The palace was now forgotten. A few drinks were what we needed. Back in our regular restaurant, we chilled out over a few beers. Joined by Kevin and Crystal, we relayed the story back to them. Little by little, the frustration seeped away and we gradually began to see the funny side of it. Just another day in India!
Hospital Hell
3rd class train travel
India’s great strength in moving into the 21st century is her skill at computers. Computers are a big business here and the country is quite advanced in software development. A lot of young Indians are highly computer literate. Nowhere can this be seen more evidently than in Bangalore, India’s Silicone Valley. It’s the most modern, progressive city in the country, full of bustle and youthful drive. Many believe that IT and e-commerce are the way ahead for India and they are probably right. The majority, however, are less enthused. Farmers, tailors, builders, blue-collar workers, and the poor are feeling left out. They can’t see how all this money spent on technology is going to benefit them. So many people in India live in poverty, they get little or no education and their chances of success are limited to say the least. They feel they been forgotten, left behind and they have a point. Arriving in Bangalore later than anticipated, (as usual), we booked into a hotel on the city’s outskirts, and waited until the next day to venture into the center. Like all Indian cities, it’s overcrowded, noisy, and polluted. But there is a difference. People were business-like, moving with a sense of purpose. There was no aimless hanging around, no staring at Westerners, no shy nervous giggling. The people here had education, money and jobs - and you could feel it. Walking down the main street, MG (Mahatma Gandhi) Road, it was hard to decide if there were more fast food outlets or Internet cafes.
After indulging in as much pizza as we could eat, a visit to Baskin Robbins was a must and then the only thing to do was wash it all down with a few beers. We came across a little place called the Underground. It looked modern; it looked like a bar should. Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” rang out onto the street. It was too much to resist. Inside, we ordered a large jug of beer and struck up conversation with an Irish woman and her English boyfriend. We told them of our travels and listened to theirs. The guy had mentioned not returning home and, from the way he was talking we suspected that he was on the run from something. “The Wall” was now blaring from the jukebox, and the place was filling up; young men and women enjoyed a few drinks in each others company, the barriers of tradition broken. At closing time, all of us were a bit worse for wear, we swore blindly to our new-found friends that we’d meet up the following evening. We never saw them again.
We stayed in Bangalore for a while soaking up the atmosphere. Driving back to the guesthouse one evening, we found our way was blocked. Hundreds of people had taken to the roads and were following a procession of drummers and musicians dressed in traditional clothing and wearing bells on their wrists. One man in the center held up a huge pole covered by tiny bells, which was strapped to his hips for support. It shook in time to the music. Bangalore is a city of contrasts; though eager to embrace modern ways of life, it still knows how to celebrate old traditions. Our week in Bangalore had been great, it had left us feeling relaxed and fully nourished. But it was time to move on; we packed the bike and started on our 400km drive to the ancient town of Hampi. It seemed as though Bangalore had relaxed us a bit too much. We were only 20kms along the road when we pulled in for a drink. ”Is it just me or did that last 20kms seem like 50?” Garry said stretching his back. ”No, it’s not just you; I’m totally wrecked as well.” Garry pulled out the map, and we both looked at our proposed route. ”If that’s all we’ve covered, there’s no way we’ll make it to Hampi