18 December, Jalgaon to Fardapur (Ajanta), 60km(a)"Stop
the train! Stop the train!" we yelled impotently from the dark platform at Jalgaon as
the train, still holding our bikes, slowly rolled off into the night. It seemed to confirm
the apprehensive feeling I had about taking this whole last segment of our trip, organized
at the last minute, mere hours after American forces bombed Iraq. Did this mean wed
never see our bikes again? Would we have to take the next train back to Bombay? Was this
the abrupt end of the BikeBrats?
We both felt completely worn out, which only compounded the demoralizing nature of the
luggage mans screw-up. It had been a long journey to get here after all. The train
from Ahmedabad to Bombay had left in the wee hours of the morning and was cramped, sweaty
and overly long. We didnt arrive in the metropolis until two hours past scheduled,
and we felt a bit on edge as we had no idea what to expect from the largest of
Indias cities. After a slow weave through some outrageous traffic and checking into
our hotel, though, we were out on the streets and marveling at the relative spaciousness
and civility of Bombay (now known officially as Mumbai).
The old parts of town, called Fort and Colaba, didnt look like theyd
changed much since the time of colonial rule, right down to the black taxis plying the
streets. Facing the imposing Victorian confection known as VT (for Victoria Terminus)
stood the most unlikely sight wed seen in all of India: a McDonalds sign. Of
course no beef is served, but the lamb burger was pretty tasty, and the fries were from
God. The terrace where we ate was full of wealthy-looking Mumbaiites, noshing variously on
lamb- and veggie- burgers (there are two separate kitchens and lines so as not to offend
any rabid vegetarians). After dinner we headed towards the tourist district of Colaba down
a long arcaded street full of sidewalk vendors pushing all kinds of tacky goods. Vendors
addressed us in English the lingua franca of much of Bombayyet no one seemed
particularly surprised to see us, which was mighty refreshing.
Eventually we made it to the Regal Cinema, which was showing an American film. We
eagerly bought tickets for the late screening before heading onwards for the Gateway to
India, a Bombay landmark and fabled cruising spot. Not much was going on besides people
setting up for a fancy wedding, so we tried to find the next place on our list: the Voodoo
Pub, allegedly the only gay bar in all of India. The address we had was rather vague, so
we enlisted the aid of a young Muslim street urchin called Rahul who had first addressed
us with the standard Colaba greeting call of
"Marijuanahashishcocaineyounggirlsorboys." He led us to the door of the place
(still empty) and then back to the movie theater, where he declined an invitation to join
us but happily accepted a small monetary token of our appreciation.
The film was forgettable but the cinema was spectacular, virtually unchanged since the
1940s. Fred bailed on the bar outing, too tired to think of anything but sleep, so I
went alone. The Voodoo Pub would class as a third-rate queer bar anyplace else in the
world, but after nearly two months in strait-laced India it was like coming to an oasis in
the desert. The blend of depraved expats, tourists, transvestites, poseurs and preppies
was pretty much what I had expected. I met a pair of adorable young students
roommates in the dorm and sometimes boyfriendsas well as a dancer ("you
know, in Bollywood films") whod obviously been around the block a few times.
When the bar closed I headed to the nearby "wall" along the seaside across from
the Taj Mahal hotel. This is where the real homo scene seemed to be going on, but I was
too beat to do anything beyond chat a little with a muscle queen visiting from Bangalore.
The next morning we got up early to reserve a train out of town. In the special
foreigners line we met all sorts of people, including a clueless Argentinian whod
just flown in and wanted to go to "Pewn" (i.e. Pune, normally pronounced
"Poona") and an elegant NRI (non-resident Indian) couple from Mauritius. A
charming but rather vulgar woman from Goa worked the line, providing all sorts of advice.
"Youre staying at the Grand Hotel?" she asked us incredulously, "well
that place is fucking expensive if you ask me. And if you want to go to Jalgaon the
overnight train leaves from Kurla, an hour or two away by taxi, depending on the fucking
traffic." She had made our decision for us. Wed leave that night and save our
further exploration of Bombay for later.
Just outside the station a headline on a newspaper for sale on the sidewalk caught my
eye: "Americans Bomb Iraq". For over a year now wed been joking that a
possible title for our book could be "Have We Bombed Iraq Yet?" since its
been kind of a leitmotif throughout our trip. Was it even prudent to plunge off into the
hinterland? The towns we planned to pass through Aurangabad,
Ahmadnagardidnt they sound Muslim? A hasty decision was made: wed test
the waters and see; if it felt at all dangerous (not at all unlikely here, where the
majority of Indians already resent the U.S. over our policy on Indian nuclear tests, not
to mention the perceived moral turpitude of laffaire Lewinsky). We whiled
away the rest of the day by walking around and familiarizing ourselves with this crazy
town. Fred was nervous about traffic and the time wed need to recover our bikes from
one station (Bombay Central) and check them in at another (Kurla) so we left in the middle
of the afternoon for a ten oclock train. Amazingly, our bikes were easily found
(with the assistance of a baksheesh-begging porter) and strapped onto the rack of a
decrepit cab. On the long, long ride out to Kurla I kept marveling at how positively huge
this city is, seemingly endless and without any real plan to it.
Of course there was plenty of drama at the station. The luggage king first stated that
the train was an express to Calcutta and there wouldnt be enough time to unload the
bikes in Jalgaon, but after we stood around moping for awhile, trying to figure out what
to do next, he came up with a plan. "Well, if you wake up one station before Jalgaon,
at 4:45," he said, "you can go to the luggage car and remind the guard that your
bikes will be coming off. That might work, but Im really not sure." We
decided to risk it, since going back into Bombay seemed hopelessly complicated, and
settled into the noisome first-class waiting room for a brief rest before dealing with our
berth assignments. After wandering up and down the platform (for the train was already
there) I learned that Fred and I had been assigned to two separate compartments, seemingly
miles away from each other. How is it that we have such bad luck with trains in this
country?
Nevertheless, the friendly old conductor woke me up at the appointed time. I waited at
the door of the train to hop off and have a word with the luggage guard, but the train
didnt even stop at the station where I was supposed to do this, so I figured
Id wing it, a little miffed at being cheated out of a half-hours sleep.
Jalgaon. I leapt off the train while it was still rolling and headed straight back to
the luggage car, immediately behind mine. The guard was unloading bags from his little
office and when I asked about our bikes in the luggage bay, he informed me lazily,
"There was not enough room in the car; they were not loaded in Bombay."
"But we saw them going on just before the train pulled out!" I pleaded with
him, "Cant you just open it and see?"
But at this point there was no point in arguing, even with Fred huffing and puffing at
my side. The whistle had blown and the train was slowly pulling away into the night. The
luggage nazi merely shrugged his shoulders and leapt back aboard. --"Stop the
train!"
Right next to us on the platform was the office of the assistant stationmaster.
Amazingly, it was open; so I marched right in and told the first person I saw of our
plight. I spoke so fast that I wondered if he even understood me, or if I was addressing
the right person at all, but the information was relayed to a suave-looking guy in the
back office who immediately picked up the phone and began barking into it. Hanging up the
receiver, he looked at me and beamed. "Your bikes will be unloaded at the next
station and sent back here, arriving at about 8:30." I thought to myself:
"Ill believe that when I see it," half-afraid that the bikes were still
somehow in Bombay, but he seemed so confident that now all I could think of was getting a
little shut-eye.
The "Railway Retiring Rooms" just above were full, so we made our way
outside, where a deserted street was lined with little hotels, each less savory than the
next. Most looked positively closed for the night, but one had a buzzer at the door. A
sleep-rumpled man let us in and showed us to an immaculate little room which featured
God be praiseda television set. We ravenously turned it to BBC World and
learned about the bombing before falling into a deep, deep slumber. I had a particularly
vivid dream where we biked into war-torn Baghdad for the day (on my cycling map I
discovered with delight that it was only a short distance away), aware that the bombing
only happened at night. We met up with ex-pats packing up their U-Hauls and indulging in
last-minute cocktail parties as well as one Anne Waters mother of a good friend of
minewho complained about having booked a vacation here at such a volatile time.
It was well past eight-thirty when we awoke. Neither of us really expected the bikes to
be waiting for us at the station, but there they were at the platform, watched over by a
couple of unwashed underlings from Indian Railways (largest employer on Earth). Fred
noticed immediately that his bikes rear rim was severely bent, and he wanted to fill
out a complaint. I convinced him that this was a waste of time and suggested we have
breakfast and visit a bike shop instead.
--Which is precisely what we did. On the sidewalk terrace of our hotel/restaurant we
packed our bags onto the bikes with hardly any audience at all (are Indians less curious
here, or simply more polite?), chomped down some dosa and headed off to a
recommended bike shop. The shop looked better-equipped than most wed seen and was
run by a prosperous Jain family. The father and his two sons kept plying us with questions
and advice. "You really should not eat meat," advised the father, "it is
not good for your soul or body. I myself have never tasted the flesh of any animal. My
family are Jain, which is the most perfect religion which exists, you must admit."
Meanwhile, one of the two sons was showing me an Indian mountain bike and invited me to
ride it, but I declined once I saw how the handlebars were irreparably loose. He asked me
how much Id paid for my bike and when I told him (revising downwards by 60% or so)
he told me I paid too much. "In India you could get the same bike for less than half
that." The family also owned a hotel in Aurangabad, where wed be in a few
nights, and we promised wed check it out though I wondered how much more
pontificating Id be able to endure.
Fred was a little leery of the way they had fixed his rim, but he had to admit that it
was perfectly aligned and at least temporarily rideable. Jalgaon was bigger than we had
first thought, and far more prosperous. Riding out through the suburbs full of light
industry and a shopping mall or twoI had the odd impression of being back in Del
Rio, Texas, half-expecting a Wal-Mart to appear on the horizon. Yet soon we were in the
familiar countryside, albeit a countryside with a nicely paved road running through it.
Our route climbed gently through lushly cultivated fields, orchards, and sweet-smelling
rose plantations. A colorful human feature of the landscape were the many gypsies we saw,
dressed in Gujarati style and plying the roads in their animal-drawn wagons when they
werent camped out somewhere in tents or teepees. From what we could ascertain, these
people are migrant field workers who follow the sugarcane harvest.
Perfectly quiet, smooth, tree-lined roads led us all the way to Fardapur, the
jumping-off place for the nearby Ajanta caves. I had taken an instant liking to
Maharashtra state, wondering if all of it made for such superb cycling. As we rolled
through the little village a kid on a bike came up to us. In uncannily good English he
told us his name was Philip and asked if we were looking for the MTDC hotel, which in fact
we were. Luckily we had him along to point it out to us, since we would have pedaled right
by otherwise. In a hurry to get up to the caves before sunset, we bolted down a thali
lunch and jumped into an auto-rickshaw.
The caves a misnomer, since theyre actually cliffs carved out by
handwere nothing short of stupendous. Excavated from the 2nd century B.C.
to the 12th century A.D, thirty of them line a beautiful curved river gorge
tucked into some desolate hills, a million miles from nowhere. Most are viharas
featuring huge carved images of the Buddha along with intricate and well-preserved wall
paintings, while others called chaityas have huge sphere-crowned monoliths in the
center, said to represent the Buddha. Dormitories for the monks were also carved into the
rock, and the story goes that they initially came here to seek refuge from the monsoon
season and carved the caves in order to have a place to pray.
We visited every cave, the more spectacular of which came complete with a reflector wallah
who lit up the rear recesses with the aid of an aluminum-covered board. As with the Taj
Mahal, we had come on the one day of the week when no admission is charged, meaning that
the place was crawling with Indian school groups. Many of these followed us from cave to
cave, asking the usual questions and posing us for photos. The leaders of one group from
some town in the southern part of the state insisted we come visit them there if we passed
through and queried us on our opinion of Clinton. "We just cannot understand how your
people allow such a bad man to be your leader," one of them said, "and now he
goes and attacks Iraq. In India this man could never be president."
We rode back to Fardapur in a rickshaw full of locals. After dinner we went out in
search of chocolate. Young Philip found us and said he knew of a place. He proceeded to
lead us down a narrow dark path into what looked like the heart of the village and told us
about his background. Though he never went to school he learned how to read and write from
his parents, and picked up English by talking to the tourists who passed through. "A
lot of them come on bicycles," he added, "about twelve hundred a year or
so." The so-called "chocolate" he found us was nothing of the sort, but I
bought some so that he wouldnt lose face. As he led us back to our place he said
hed see us tomorrow, which I understood to mean that hed be expecting some
sort of backsheesh.