On a map it looked as though I only had another 250 kilometers to go to rendezvous once again with the girls. The next day as I took the bike’s best shot at the 250 k, I stopped frequently, hoping not to rouse whatever problem was sleeping in the steel belly of the bike. My goal was Ernakulum, a city just next to Kochi.
Around 230 k, she stalled. I waited, knowing that the only thing that seemed to do any good with the bike’s problem was time. I waited an hour, maybe two. Then I started her up and got about another 10 k before she stalled again. I waited longer. Suddenly it didn’t look as though I’d make it to Ernakulum before sun fall. I tried the bike again. This time, after an hour or so of cooling off, the bike stalled after half a kilometer. I was quickly growing nervous and angry, but at the same time, I was so close, the girls were barely a twenty minute bike ride away.
I resorted to wheeling the bike forward as I waited to start it again. Between shot gunning the bike for half a kilometer and wheeling it another two, I eventually made it into Ernakulum. Drenched in sweat and caked in dirt, my frustration was mounting. Now if only I could find the hotel they’re staying at…
One thing about India is that a lot of streets don’t have names, an extraordinarily reliable system when lost in the country. Another helpful tidbit is that the streets that do have names, well, the buildings that line those streets don’t have numbers. For example, when listing the return address of a package that I sent from Mumbai, I wrote the address verbatim from the business card which listed its name and was then followed by “near Crawford Market”, no numbers or zip codes, just “near Crawford Market“. I suppose locations and addresses in India function much like the definitions of words: if you don’t know a good amount of words, you won’t be able to understand the definition when you read it, just as, if you don’t know where the hell Crawford Market is, there’s damn little chance you’ll find where I was staying.
After several helpful people pointed me in what turned out to be opposite directions, my anger and frustration mounted to a level of pure inactivity. I straddled the dead bike as cars whizzed past me, perpetually honking and beeping at…well everything. I wondered what percentage of beeps were actually directed at me. I realized how useless the thought was and how it wasn‘t getting me anywhere. In like fashion, that realization persuaded me to sit even longer in a more convincing strata of dismay.
Two young Indian men walked up to me and asked me if I needed help. I showed them the map of Ernakulum from my Rough Guide and pointed to the spot where the elusive hotel was supposed to be. After ten minutes of half-attempts to explain where I wanted to go, choked out by anger, the young man who seemed most concerned about me said something that seemed to wake me up.
“I’m sorry, I’m new to Ernakulum, I’m actually from Karnataka. Please, tell me how I can help you?”
The sincerity of his words and the earnest feeling behind his expression swept away my irritation and made me realize how emotionally knotted I’d become with my situation. Who are these people who just come up and want to help me? I thought. Are all these Indians from quaint mid-western towns in the United States? The Indian’s words were straight out of a similar experience I’d had in Washington state, or Montana, or North Dakota, or any of the other states that I had cycled through (excluding New England).
The young man helped me figure out that the hotel wasn’t terribly far away and after wheeling and shot gunning the bike a few more times, my bedraggled and long cloistered smile showed itself at the sight of my friend Sophie coming out of the hotel reception to meet me.
Around 230 k, she stalled. I waited, knowing that the only thing that seemed to do any good with the bike’s problem was time. I waited an hour, maybe two. Then I started her up and got about another 10 k before she stalled again. I waited longer. Suddenly it didn’t look as though I’d make it to Ernakulum before sun fall. I tried the bike again. This time, after an hour or so of cooling off, the bike stalled after half a kilometer. I was quickly growing nervous and angry, but at the same time, I was so close, the girls were barely a twenty minute bike ride away.
I resorted to wheeling the bike forward as I waited to start it again. Between shot gunning the bike for half a kilometer and wheeling it another two, I eventually made it into Ernakulum. Drenched in sweat and caked in dirt, my frustration was mounting. Now if only I could find the hotel they’re staying at…
One thing about India is that a lot of streets don’t have names, an extraordinarily reliable system when lost in the country. Another helpful tidbit is that the streets that do have names, well, the buildings that line those streets don’t have numbers. For example, when listing the return address of a package that I sent from Mumbai, I wrote the address verbatim from the business card which listed its name and was then followed by “near Crawford Market”, no numbers or zip codes, just “near Crawford Market“. I suppose locations and addresses in India function much like the definitions of words: if you don’t know a good amount of words, you won’t be able to understand the definition when you read it, just as, if you don’t know where the hell Crawford Market is, there’s damn little chance you’ll find where I was staying.
After several helpful people pointed me in what turned out to be opposite directions, my anger and frustration mounted to a level of pure inactivity. I straddled the dead bike as cars whizzed past me, perpetually honking and beeping at…well everything. I wondered what percentage of beeps were actually directed at me. I realized how useless the thought was and how it wasn‘t getting me anywhere. In like fashion, that realization persuaded me to sit even longer in a more convincing strata of dismay.
Two young Indian men walked up to me and asked me if I needed help. I showed them the map of Ernakulum from my Rough Guide and pointed to the spot where the elusive hotel was supposed to be. After ten minutes of half-attempts to explain where I wanted to go, choked out by anger, the young man who seemed most concerned about me said something that seemed to wake me up.
“I’m sorry, I’m new to Ernakulum, I’m actually from Karnataka. Please, tell me how I can help you?”
The sincerity of his words and the earnest feeling behind his expression swept away my irritation and made me realize how emotionally knotted I’d become with my situation. Who are these people who just come up and want to help me? I thought. Are all these Indians from quaint mid-western towns in the United States? The Indian’s words were straight out of a similar experience I’d had in Washington state, or Montana, or North Dakota, or any of the other states that I had cycled through (excluding New England).
The young man helped me figure out that the hotel wasn’t terribly far away and after wheeling and shot gunning the bike a few more times, my bedraggled and long cloistered smile showed itself at the sight of my friend Sophie coming out of the hotel reception to meet me.
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