Cycling through the Thar desert
Everyone loves a good 'coming-of-age' story - those stories where boys or girls finally triumph over adversity. When they suddenly realize they are big enough, strong enough, tough enough to conquer the world on their own terms. Ah yes, we all like to think we could do the same. If we were faced with those circumstances we would rise above and triumph just like our heroes in those stories.
I'm sorry to say this isn't that kind of story. Sure, I would love to say I had faced my enemy like a man, that I had conquered my fears and forged new paths. But the truth of the matter is that I was reduced to a blithering idiot: overcome by fear... paralyzed by fright... and scared out of my britches. I wish I could report a different tale; a tale where I come out smelling like a rose, but instead I am forced to tell a tale where I come out smelling like a... well, you know... not a rose.
The story begins with John and I biking around India (I know, I know...someone who has 'come-of-age' would never attempt such a ridiculous thing - they would be far wiser. But I never claimed to have 'come of age' in the first place) and I got horribly sick (OK, I'll admit getting sick has nothing whatsoever to do with coming of age. It is simply a fact of traveling). When I had sufficiently recovered to resume our journey, we faced this one, bitty problem: John's bike was in Jaiselmer, mine was still back in Pokran. (The logical thing to do here would be for us both to return to Pokran. But did I mention anything about logic?)
John wanted to head south and then cut east over to Jodhpur. I had no choice but to go north to Pokran before I could head east to Jodhpur. And so we agreed to go our merry ways and meet again in a couple of days at kilometer marker #91, at which our trusty map showed an intersection.
Now one might think that all would be well with such a sensible plan. But India is known for its ability to screw things up. And then there was that other problem of the curfew. At that particular point in time, India had been thrust into an enormous uproar over a temple in Ayodya and the government finally ordered everyone into their homes. But brave, intrepid travelers we were, and we set off despite it all.
I can happily report that all went exactly according to plan for a while. The bus came on time, I retrieved my trusty iron maiden, and headed out to conquer unknown lands. Every thing was going peachy keen until I came upon an intersection at kilometer marker #54. It was boldly marked as the road to the very towns John would be coming from. Hmmm… we had been very clear from the start: we would meet at the intersection at marker #91. I waited a while to see if John would come, and finally decided to head on, knowing that if he should arrive the local kids would let him know I had already departed. I pedaled confidently, completely trusting that I would meet John soon - either the map was wrong and he would approach from behind, or we would meet at our agreed upon kilometer marker.
And then another intersection appeared. This one, too, was boldly marked as the pathway to the towns John would coming from. Now I must make it clear that our map showed one intersection, and only one intersection, joining John's road and my road. Our map showed that intersection very clearly at kilometer marker #91. And I was now at marker #62. This was a bit problematic but… I could rise above it. Yes, I could deal with this minor confusion. I made sure that everyone in the village saw me and knew I had continued on. I set my sights on marker #91.
At marker #75 I found another intersection. And yet another at #87. Finally I approached kilometer marker #91. There was nothing. I mean nothing. A few shrubs perhaps. And maybe a tree or two. No houses... no people... no intersection... no John. Nothing. Now this… well, this was problematic. The sun would be setting soon and I was out there in the middle of nowhere with a whole lotta nothing.
Remember back to earlier in this story when I mentioned the curfew? By dusk everyone had to be home, shut in behind closed doors. I had no home to go to nor door to shut. And the military patrolled the streets at night to make sure no troublemakers were out doing what they do best. And I had heard stories about the Indian military that I didn't like. To sum it all up: the last place on earth I wanted to be was on the side of a road as night was fast approaching with Indian military trucks lumbering past me. Nope - I didn't wanna be there at all.
I am proud to say that I didn't panic - not yet anyway. I remained calm (just like my momma taught me), looked around, and considered my options. As I saw it, my options consisted of:
Turning around and going 15 kilometers back to the previous village.
Continuing on in the hope there would be a village nearby.
Stay where I was and wait for the Boogieman to get me.
I elected option 2, maintained my composure quite well, and started pedaling into the future. I did well for a while. Until it got darker. And more and more military trucks passed by. And no other cars passed at all. And I realized that those military people knew just as well as I did that I was stranded. I was up a creek without a paddle. No knight in shining armor was going to come and rescue me. It was just me and those military guys - the ones with big guns.
I wish I could say that I handled the situation like an adult; that I banished my fear and rose up triumphantly. But I didn't. I panicked. I quickly metamorphosed into a blithering idiot pedaling along a deserted highway in the middle of India. I knew I would never make it home. My last breaths would be taken here on this god-forsaken stretch of desert road. I would be gang raped and beaten and tortured and die a miserable death.
And then I saw it... the machine. The torture machine. It was there... on the road... coming toward me. My mind conjured up images of the machine slowly grinding me up to make dogfood. The end was near. My demise was certain.
My eyes remained locked on that machine as it approached in the growing darkness. It seemed like there was something familiar about the shape - I had seen that silhouette before. A horror film perhaps? And then it dawned on me - that shape, that silhouette... it wasn't a torture machine at all, but simply a bicycle with panniers. John, my knight in shining armor, had arrived to rescue me after all.
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