FEBRUARY 10, 2013
Many firsts in our life come with great expectations – first
day of school, first kiss, first game at Yankee Stadium. Others come and go without expectation or
celebration. I was kind of hoping my
first ride on a motorcycle would fall in to the later category. It was not to be.
After three exhausting days in Delhi, I was able to make my
escape. The purpose of my stay was
solely to catch up on business where I knew I could get good internet and great
cell phone reception.
My connection up in Dharamsala fell through, so I
more-or-less arbitrarily pick Rishikesh as my next city. The big draw is that it is on the Ganges
River about 1,000 kilometers north of my last stop on the Ganga. I booked a six hour bus ride that cost me
less that 10 U.S. dolars. Take that
Megabus.
After thirty minutes of waiting, I called to check on the
status of the bus. Not that a thirty
minute delay is off par for “India time,” its just that I had to piss and knew
if I left my stop the bus would come the next second. It took the phone to be passed through a few
people, but I was told that the bus already came and I wasn’t ready. The meeting point was “Metro Station Gate 2.
Near Axis Bank.” I sat beneath the Axis
Bank sign with Gate 2 less than fifty feet in front of me. An Indian lie to me? Nooooooo.
That hasn’t happened in at least an hour.
My instructions were to take the subway ten stops down to
meet the bus at another pick up. After a
few hearty American F bombs to let them know how happy I was to deal with the
subway, I sucked it up and bought my ticket.
I had to get out of Delhi.
My first train has a mechanical problem and we have to
deboard. The next train coming is so
packed it is one of those scenes I’ve only seen on YouTube. It is wild.
Passengers on the platform literally run at speed into the packed car,
like a full back trying to break the defensive line. I stand back in awe. No effing way am I dealing with that.
The next train comes 20 minutes later and I’m no in danger
of missing the bus at my next stop. I
get on and make it to my destination.
Leaving the platform its clear that I’m in an industrial ghetto. Did I mention I have the s#its? Well, I do.
After eating seriously questionable street food since January it has
finally caught up with me. (Yes my fellow Himalayan Institute yogis – those
mornings you didn’t see me at the dining tent it was because I jogged into town
to eat with the locals. Sorry.) I make
for a field that looks like a post-apocalypse fall out zone. Baby wipes in one hand, switchblade in the
other. Not sure what I was about to deal
with, but I was ready for ugliness of any variety. I take care of business without interference
and GTFO back to the metro station.
One phone call later and I’m told I need to walk to some
mall. No effing way. I refuse and demand they pick me up. Ten minutes later a guy rolls up on a
motorcycle motioning for me to get on back.
Yeah, as if. Keep in mind that
India you are constantly solicited by every random stranger trying to sell you
something, including transport. That’s
what I thought was happening.
Nope. It’s the bus
driver coming to pick me up on a borrowed motorcycle and take me to the
bus. After putting up a fight I give
in. It’s 11 p.m. and I was supposed to
be asleep on the bus almost two hours ago.
Out of options, I’m on the back of a motorcycle weaving in
and out of Delhi traffic in the dark.
I’ve got a 10 kilo (22 lbs) backpack on my back and out to the side I’m
straight-arming a laptop back with my computer and several heavy books in it. The only thing that made me keep my wits was
that I was imagining Drew and Bob and Perk and all my motorcycle friends laughing
their asses off at me.
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