Being taken for a ride Part 1

Note: To any 60kph members reading this. If I get any names or other details wrong, my apologies. It is not an intended slight. Just remember there were 20-odd of you and only one of me - and my poor memory!


Making quick decisions is not very Me, and when I make them at speed it often leads to unforeseen consequences that I would have preferred not to happen. Such was the case when I found myself celebrating New Year's Eve lying prone and alone on a sleeper bus, on the way to Bangalore. Having decided to go with CP and 60kph on their 7-day motorbike ride, I had to get to Bangalore to meet them all there by the morning of 1st January. I had to take this bus or forgo the ride entirely. Not happening! Carrying CP, me, his luggage and my backpack all on his bike was not feasible, so the only option was the bus.

Day one
I arrived in Bangalore a couple of hours late and poor CP had been waiting for me since 5.30am. After a few searches and circlings and phone calls, we found each other on the station and he rode me to the apartments they had rented for a couple of days.

I was dulled from lack of sleep and thrust into a room with some 15 or so Indian men (one woman only so far). All were in either a state of excitement having not seen each other for some months or a state of extreme stupor: their NYE party had apparently lasted until 6am! You could see the evidence of this all around. Empty glasses lay scattered on the floor, half-eaten plates of food perched on all available surfaces and ashtrays sprouted forests of cigarette butts. I was so tired all I wanted to do was hide away, as they chatted away loudly in a mixture of Hindi and English. CP had told me that I should talk to people to get to know them, so they would feel comfortable with me, so I braced myself and put on my best sociable face.

He was right, of course, but it was easier said than done. I felt rude butting in and asking questions, forcing them to speak in English (which all of them did). Also, any question I asked had the embarrassing effect of halting the conversation everywhere else as people listened in to what I'd asked. Everyone was very polite, of course. After all, I would have done the same with someone I didn't know, but I didn't want them to be extra polite, I just wanted them to accept me and not treat me any differently. But it was only the first day and they were all still getting comfortable around one another again, let alone a strange foreign female hanger-on who'd come along for the ride but neither rode nor knew anything about bikes.

Using all my limited social butterfly resources I pressed on. I'd hit on the formula of asking where each person was from and how long they'd been in the club, so that, at least, I could have a chat with everybody. I felt like a broken record, endlessly repeating myself, but at least I was doing the homework CP had set. Whether I got good grades or not remained to be seen...

Nothing much, other than smoking and chatting seemed to be happening (big groups, whoever they are, take an excruciatingly long time to actually do anything as every decision is discussed and discussed again) and eventually CP told me that they had decided to leave tomorrow instead of today. I was secretly relieved, as it meant I could have a good night's sleep to catch up before being thrust out into the wilds.

Then suddenly a decision had been made. We were going out for lunch. Sat at a big long table in a Keralan place, food was ordered without me really knowing what I would be getting. I knew I would have to fit in and eat whatever they ate for the next seven days. So I did. Seven days of spicy Indian food and non-bottled water later, I am fine. As I knew I would be.

I believe that a great part of the Delhi Belly myth is psychological. If you think and worry that you will get ill, you probably will. If you just accept and eat what's put in front of you your body will deal with it. I'm sure medical experts would disagree with my wild theory, but I stand by it. On my travels the people I met who got ill were those who were forever wringing their hands with sanitiser and wiping or checking every surface before they ate, sat, lay or did anything else on it. I have shovelled handfuls of food into my hungry mouth with fingernails bearing two days' worth of grime and not suffered. My theory is not borne of the smuggery or gloating at having evaded such suffering, but of my own experience - three times in India - fact not fiction. If I get ill in the next few weeks then I may revise my theory...

The next stop was a huge Decathlon store, home of all things outdoorsy and therefore a totally alien place to me. I would need hiking shoes, a sleeping bag, mat and various other things. CP disappeared to stock up himself, leaving me with Dipesh who promised to help me out. Dipesh - or Dipsi - was 28 and a big bear of a man with an impressive full beard and moustache. He wore a T-shirt advertising Ink Tribe, his company which makes and supplies products for the tattoo industry. He had a couple of tattoos I could see on his arms but not as many as I expected - especially for my stereotypical image of a biker.

'You don't have many tattoos for someone who works in the industry,' I remarked boldly.
'I have 15,' he said with a laugh.
'Oh.' I felt foolish. 'They must be mostly hidden, then.' Idiot! That sounded even worse. But he didn't seem to mind.

We spent the next half-hour or so, choosing things for me and for him. He was very patient and helpful with my lack of a clue about that would be suitable and I started to relax and get to know him. He was, like CP, something of an entrepreneur. As well as Ink Tribe, he worked for a company he'd helped set up called Ride Of My Life, organising motorbike tours across India. He also managed to find time to be 60kph's administrator. Although he was very self-confident, he was not arrogant but very attentive, friendly and chatty and I quickly felt at ease with him. If he was starting to relax around me, I hoped the others would follow suit.

Back at the apartment the talking and smoking continued but I was flagging. The food had made me drowsy and the bad night's sleep on the bus was getting to me. I could feel myself shrinking away from everyone so I slipped off quietly to CP's room for a nap.

When I woke up a couple of hours later nothing much had changed, except that great bags of Indian 'takeaway' had been brought in and people were starting to help themselves. Everyone grabbed whatever plate or utensil they could find and just dug in. If I wanted to be part of the group I would have to do the same and not expect to be waited on by CP, Dipsi or anyone else. First come, first served was to be my watchword for the week.

The kitchen sink was a war zone. Stale food was trapped between used plates, clean and dirty cups snuggled inside one another or lay side-by-side and empty whiskey and beer bottles poked out of the overflowing bin. Rummaging around in the debris, I found a usable plate and with a quick rinse under the tap I was ready for battle. Foil tins, plastic bags, bundles of newspapers, were all ripped open revealing their fragrant and delicious contents. I don't know what half of it was but I ate bits of everything. I seared my mouth on innocuous-looking dishes, or was surprised when sauces I thought would explode my tongue were unexpectedly mild. All around me the guys stood or sat wolfing down the contents of whatever plate, bowl, or mug they had managed to find with fingers, forks or spoons, talking and laughing the whole while. It felt good. It was one huge big bedlam of a mess but no-one cared, so I didn't either.

Dipsi came over and thrust the spoon part of one of those camping knife-fork-spoon kits into my hand. I was already using my fingers but I gratefully accepted.

'Do you drink?'he asked.
'Yes, sometimes,' I said, thinking that tonight was not the night to get drunk in front of people I barely knew.
'Try this.' He gave me a refillable plastic drinking bottle. It was black so I couldn't see what was inside.
'What is it?' I asked.
'Just try it.'
'But what is it?' I protested, with a laugh.
'It's whiskey and coke,' he said. 'Go on.'
'I don't really like it, ' I said with an apologetic laugh, 'but I'll try it.' I've got such strong willpower, have you noticed?

It tasted as horrible as I'd expected and with a grimace I told him so. He laughed.
'Do you want a beer instead?' he asked. That I could do and it wouldn't be too powerful for my weedy alcohol tolerance.

The bottle of Kingfisher he brought me was huge! I was expecting one of the neat little green ones that most places sell, not this big brown monster! If I drank it all I would be drunk, despite my best efforts. I'd just have to take it slowly.

Now the other guys were drinking, they were beginning to loosen up and come over to me to chat. CP had warned me that Indian guys can be quite shy, so it was nice to see that alcohol has the same effect on inhibitions the world over.

Gauruv came over first. In his 40s, he was one of the founders of 60kph. He was probably over 6ft with a big round belly and a shock of wild, electrocuted-looking curly hair, a grey-speckled beard and little round glasses that perched halfway down his nose.

'Bridget, do you smoke grass?' he asked in a loud, gravelly voice. I was amused at such a direct question.
'Very occasionally, yes,' I said cautiously. 'But I don't smoke cigarettes.'
'That's good, that's good. You should smoke more often - it's good for you.'
Boldened by my few sips of beer I felt that a gentle disagreement might be a good means of making friends. Don't ask me why.

'Hardly,' I said, 'Smoking is really bad for you. We all know that.'
'No, smoking grass, I mean.'
'Why is that?'
'Cigarettes are full of toxic chemicals to make them addictive and that's what gives you cancer. That's why they have a filter, otherwise you couldn't smoke them.'
'Ok, so why is grass any better? You still smoke it, so it must be bad for you.' I said, with a smile.
"No, it's all natural stuff that grows wild so it has no chemicals in it and it doesn't contain tobacco.' Gauruv was starting to warm to his theme. I sensed this was a conversation he'd had before.

'In places where it grows wild, they use it all the time. It's not to get stoned, it's part of their way of life. It's part of their rituals.' As he spoke, he waved his hands around and curls of his hair flopped in front of his eyes. He brushed them away distractedly.

'Ok, but you still smoke it and draw the smoke into your lungs and that can't be good, as your lungs were never meant to breathe smoke,' I persisted.
'Ok, that's true, but it's still better than cigarettes because there's no tobacco in it and tobacco is full of chemicals that are toxic.' I sensed that the argument was going round in circles, so I relented.
'Right, I see what you mean,' I said.

But Gauruv wasn't speaking as a simple stoner who was trying to get me to see how amazing and 'important' a trip was. He was a very intelligent man and his ideas probably came from his own personal experience. CP had told me a bit about him beforehand. Gauruv is a documentary film maker who makes films about extreme motorcycle travel. During one experience he spent a whole year (or was stuck there, due to winter weather conditions, I'm not sure) with the far North Indian tribes in the Ladakh region of the Himalayas.

Over the next few days I discovered that Gauruv wasn't someone who just talked about amazing experiences, he'd done them. Over the 10 years of 60kph's existence he had been on rides all over India and travelled widely elsewhere too. I also discovered that he was immensely respected by the other members. Whenever they mentioned him it was with a mild sense of awe, telling me I should watch his documentaries as they were amazing and he was really talented.

But for all their respect for him as founder, Gauruv was just one of the lads too and never kept himself aloof from everyone. During the long drinking sessions that were to become a feature of the ride's evenings, he was always in the centre of the action, fooling around, play-fighting and joking with the others, instigating inductions for new members (me included), sleeping late and waking last.

I introduced myself to and chatted briefly with most of the members that night. Many were from Bangalore and were the organisers of this year's ride, as it was in their area. Charmingly referred to as 'The Bang Gang', most worked in the software industry. Others had come from places further afield, such as Delhi, Kerala, Rajasthan and Mumbai. All were middle-class, well-educated people from different walks of life, but all found a shared passion in their love of bikes and riding.

It was really heart-warming to see the friendship - expressed in big demonstrative hugs and casually placed arms around the shoulders - that existed between these men. I don't know if I expected it to be different because they were Indian, but I was strangely reassured that their affection was so open and casual. I knew I could feel safe with these men. I could see that they wouldn't hesitate to help each other out and I felt sure that my temporary inclusion in their scrum of masculinity would include me in that 'brotherhood'.

While we'd been chatting, the action had moved to the apartment CP, me and a few other would be staying in. Several of the guys were sitting round playing cards, drinking and smoking. I brought my beer along, put it on the table and sat down to watch. I couldn't really join in, either with the game or the chat in Hindi, so I quietly abandoned my bottle and slipped off to bed in my new sleeping bag. Outside the room the roar of drink-lubricated laughter and renewed friendships continued. I reached for my trusty earplugs and dropped into a dead sleep. We had an early start in the morning...