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Date:
December 11, 2002
My first 30 kilometers through India felt great. Just over the bay from
Bombay, I was traveling through a steamy jungle scented with burning
leaves. I was pleased to get my heart pumping and knock the plaque off
my arteries. However, the next four days on the National Highway were
very difficult, unsheltered from the sun, humidity and traffic. I made
it about 300 clicks before succumbing to five liters of iced water
being pumped out of a machine labeled 'Drinking Water' and spent the
rest of the night hiding in the hills violently ill. Every time I
scampered out of my tent to squat in the woods -- watching Orion spin
through the sky -- I wondered where do the tigers and elephants and
cobras live.
My illness could have been caused by the 'dinner special' a bunch of
tiny buckets of food: beans, rice, curd, pickled fruits, spicy
potatoes, curry soup and others unidentified, creating a toxic chemical
reaction in my stomach. I was reluctant to ride back to the city that
poisoned me, so I decided to ride 24 K to the next city, which turned
into 40 K and two mountains, and then a whole day of tribulations,
until by the time I arrived at the hotel I wouldn't have given a hoot
to kick the bucket.
Now, I am stymied in Chiplun in a hotel. I visited the doctor and he
prescribed half the pharmacy to me and pronounced, 'You are as good as
an Indian doctor now.' I am too weak to ride. So, I am waiting a few
days and will be forced to take a train to Goa to meet some friends.
Meanwhile, I have a television for the first time in months. In between
power and cable failures, I study the wildlife in my room. I have a
crew of Indians seemingly working only for me. So, when they rushed up
to clean my room this morning I thought nothing of it -- until I saw
myself in the mirror. I am covered in mosquito bites despite breathing
anti-mosquito smoke until my lungs ached. I counted 64 bites just on my
left arm. I look as if I have the chicken pox. I normally don't react
to mosquito bites. I hope my malaria pills work. This took my mind off
the giant Indian cockroach beside my bed whose habits I was comparing
to the Mexican cockroach, mostly analyzing any threat to my welfare. (I
have a bit of phobia. I once cleared two tons of old rabbit food out of
a pet store warehouse. After I grabbed the last bag, I looked down.
There was a swarm of cockroaches, like a brown puddle evaporating up
the walls and across the floor. Dozens if not hundreds were fleeing
down my arms from the rabbit food and up my legs from the floor.)
I havenęt had time to penetrate the Indian psyche much farther than the
mosquitoes. Every country has a unique species of mosquitoes with its
own customs. In some areas, like North America, the skeeters are big
and slow, easy to kill, but when the odd one gets through it packs a
wallop. Egypt has skittish skeeter which buzzed around my head, wearing
down my defenses, landing for a nano-second to take a wee nip before
continuing her impression of the Flight of the Bumble Bee. The big,
stripped mossies in Montana were like Kamikazes going straight for the
veins, easy to kill, but simply overwhelming me in numbers. Here in
India, they are small, black stealthy parasites that wait until I fall
asleep to suck my poisoned blood. I hope all the buggers crap their
brains out.
Truck drivers, like the mosquitoes of each country have different
habits. (I am told they are not a different species.) Generally
speaking, I think the drivers in the USA are some of the worse. Did I
ever mention that Dennis hauled 250,000 eggs around the country? I
believe the rules and safety precautions in the USA removes the
responsibility from the drivers. Or, more likely, the lack of
responsibility in America has resulted in over-regulation. Drivers
donęt need to pay as much attention to the road -- and they donęt.
These monsters think they own the road and that it is illegal for
bicycles to use the roads, as if we are relegated to Sunday rides in
the park. It only takes one inattentive driver to create an accident.
In Mexico, although the drivers seem crazy, they are much more
respectful since paupers on bicycles are commonplace. A driver must be
responsible or heęd cream himself on a cow. In Mexico, it takes two
people -- since both are paying attention -- to cause an accident. And
in India, they are good, considerate drivers despite the chaotic
appearance and, contrary to rumor, they do stop or go around me by a
few hairs. I think if a jokester enlarged every car by one centimeter
it would bring India to a crushing halt. There are only three rules of
the road or suggestions: drive on the left when there is oncoming
traffic, honk when passing (this is a constant source of pain to me),
and the biggest vehicle has right of way. Good news: I am ranked above
a pedestrian and somewhere between a smart and stupid cow. The logic
behind the madness is that there are so many vehicles and people on the
road that cars must jam themselves into every available spot. It takes
two people paying constant attention to avoid accidents.
Bad news: my Palmolive audition was canceled. But the Good news is: I just
saw myself on Indian MTV as a backup dancer in a music video. Woohoo.
Rock and Roll, baby!
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