Day 9: Freedom is Mine

My bike arrived! I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s here, in one piece, and it works. I’m actually going to be able to do the thing that I came here to do pretty soon. It’s kind of crazy. I need to amend my judgement of the Indian girl. Her name is Shubra and she has a very interesting story. She’s 33 and from Haryana in the North. Her family is traditional but wealthy enough that they gave her a decent enough education for her to crave independence and reject an arranged marriage, estranging her from her parents, particularly her father. At 25 she became suicidal and depressed. After the encouragement of friends and a therapist she put herself together and is now the Associate Vice President at some technology company. She has a very positive outlook on life despite her troubled past. She wants to fall in love and get married. Risking the severance of family ties for the taste of western freedom is a story I’ve been running into a lot here. 

I needed a SIM card. Shubra was meeting some Ghanaian friends of hers to go explore some town and she gave me a ride down the road to the nearest Airtel. Seeing dark as night African skin in Kashmir really threw me off for a second, she hadn’t told me about her friends and all of a sudden I’m looking at two Africans after having seen nothing but brown Kashmiris and white gora foreigners. It was a welcome sight. For some reason the Ghanaians were familiar with Dumfries, Virginia and brought it up right away when I said I was American. I said yes, I know Dumfries. Only because I’ve driven past it on the way to see my cousins in Williamsburg and it’s hard to forget a name like Dumfries. Africans always have some random associations with the states and I’m basing that just off of these two.  Immediately after meeting me we took a variety of selfies with different filters much to the bafflement and amusement of the Kashmiris standing by. Then they promptly dropped me off at the Airtel. The Airtel man was very kind and over the moon that I was American. They really love Americans here. I think it’s mainly that they just really don’t like the domestic Indian tourists, apparently they’re the ones leaving trash everywhere. Between you and me I don’t think it’s just the Indians. 

When I returned to the houseboats I realized that my iPhone doesn’t take SIM cards. I tried and tried to find the tray hole with the assistance of the houseboat workers to no avail, we saw online that my model was eSIM only. Technology is weird because it makes things so easy, but every time we have a minor inconvenience we say we hate technology. I hated technology in this moment. A dutch man had just checked in and we became fast friends. I finally found someone who was having the same reaction to India’s scams and trash as me. He also needed a SIM so we hoofed it back to Airtel with the accompaniment of none other than Quadir. We got to swap our stories of getting conned by travel agencies. It’s really inescapable, these guys know exactly how to work us feeble minded tourists. They smile and bring you in with their refreshingly apt English. They offer you something to eat, something to drink. They ask about you, what you want to do. Then they tell you they can hook you up with something really special. Before you know it the pencil is out and they’re drawing out a wonderful itinerary for you, full of extra little tours and hotel stays that they throw in just because they like you. Then they give you the three options. It’s always three. One is cheap and bad, one is expensive and not worth it, and one is the one they knew you were going to take from the beginning. It wasn’t until this happened to me the second time that I realized the methodology behind it. They make it seem like you’re best of friends, so if you were to take out your phone and check the actual prices of things, what kind of asshole would you be? These guys have your best interest in mind and to think otherwise would be violating the laws of humanity and trust and friendship. You have to say yes. Have you seen an Indian when you tell them no? After they’ve smiled and been so charming? It’s really terrible, the way they look at you with so much disappointment. It’s like telling your homophobic veteran father that you’re trans and want to study musical theatre. They’re staring at you trying to think of a reason to love you and they just can’t. Sometimes it’s better to throw 500 dollars into a wood chipper than have one of those kinds of faces etched forever into your memory. 

The Airtel guy easily transferred my SIM into an eSIM, god bless his heart what a gentleman. And no tip solicitation either, which made me want to give him a huge tip. I didn’t, of course. I got back to the house boats, had a final lunch and a final tea, tipped and thanked and hugged my hosts, including a tip for the humble old man I met the first day of trekking, and set off on my quest. Everything changes once you’re on the bike. I swear. All of a sudden, everybody loves you. You walk around with a backpack, you’re either a shit head tourist or a cash cow, on the bike you’re a local hero. Everywhere, people are waving at you, asking where are you from and where are you going. I have to stop several times to take selfies. The traffic is bad. I’m competing with motor bikes for space on a road that is barely wide enough for two small cars to pass each other and there’s no shoulder or usable sidewalk so pedestrians are in the mix as well. This is a highway. I’m inhaling so much poisonous garbage fire air that I think I’ll collapse. Everywhere I look something is burning and stalling trucks and buses and motorbikes are spewing out thick clouds of diesel. The warm air traps it all at face level and forces its way into my respiratory system. I need to put my hand in front of my nose as often as possible to filter out some breathable air. At one point traffic is at a complete stand still. Everyone is yelling and honking and I’m with the motorbikes looking for a way through the mess and after several excruciating minutes of heat and noise and asphyxiation we break free. Every car behind me is honking furiously and I think I’ll be pushed off the road if I don’t stand my ground and ignore the horns. Sometimes enormous buses pas me within just a couple of inches. But also, I’m happy. I’m on the fucking road man. This is exactly where I wanted to be this whole time. I’m pedaling and I’m moving and I’m leaving and I’m smiling. 

A man pulls over and waves to me, saying he’d been waiting for me. Now that I’m on the bike I’m not so afraid of scammers, so I pull over. He tells me he’s an avid cyclist and starts rattling off places he’s been to. I think he says Greece and Belgium but he’s actually talking about places in Kashmir, Gurez and Palahgun. We exchange numbers and he tells me anything I need, if I have a problem I call him. He’s 35 and on his way to earning a PhD in comparative literature and he’s published a novel in Kashmiri. Obviously we are destined to be friends. He leaves and I go on. Then I find him again. He couldn’t help but stop again and come to my aid. He shows me where I should camp for the night, a riverbank adjacent to a bridge. Then he takes me to his uncles restaurant and treats me to a free meal of mango shake and french fries in a Chinese style chili oil sauce which is actually delicious. He accompanies me to the camping site, where we have to lift the bike over a rock garden path through a couple streams. I’m sharing land with some gypsy goat herding folks, but he tells me it’s safe. With the sun at a low point he needs to take off, we shake hands and I start setting up camp. A cute little gypsy girl is watching me the whole time and helps me out with the tent here and there. It’s my first time setting it up and there’s a little pressure because no head lamp and it’s getting darker but my intuition prevails. I fashion a little alarm system for the bike by tying the cords I used to fix the tent onto the back rack from the frame to the tent so I’ll hear or feel any aspiring thieves. There’s nothing quite like being in the tent after some riding. That’s a beautiful comfort. 

Just as I go to reach for my kindle and nestle into comfort, a flashlight shines directly into my tent, interrupting my tranquility. For those of you who have had a flashlight shine into your tent, you understand how invasive and alarming such a thing can be. In the tent you feel vulnerable and defenseless, you feel like you’re under siege with nowhere to hide. I open up the tent and it turns out to be the father of the little girl from before. And you’ll never guess but he wants my money. I decide to be nice and offer him 200 rupees. He looks at it with disgust and lifts his hand to show 5. 500 rupees. That’s what I tip for exceptional service. The nerve of this man. But what am I to do? For all I know he can summon up all the goat herders with knives and they can hack me to bits. I’m a gora on his land. I cough it up. And then he just stays there. He and his daughter, who is smiling sweet innocently as if her father hadn’t just extorted me. He lights up a cigarette and just looks at me. I’m kind of scared and also annoyed. I text Asif, my new buddy and tell him what the deal is. He says “don’t give them anything man!!”. I ask him if I can call him and he can talk to them, he says of course. So I call Asif and give this dude the phone. After about a minute of dialogue the 500 rupees note is back in my possession. It’s good to have friends. Off the bike I lose a thousand dollars in a week. On the bike, I get my 500 rupees back in a minute. It’s that simple. 

The man and his daughter still want to hang out and that’s fine, even though the girls starting to get annoying by incessantly spinning my bike wheel. I look for my kindle and it’s not there. Holy shit. What the fuck. It can’t be. I was literally just telling myself how in love with this kindle I am and that it’s one of the few things I’d sorely miss if I lost it. I tear all the panniers apart looking for it to no avail. I’m in a state of panic. I text Shubra asking if I left it at the houseboat. But I couldn’t have. I remember exactly where I packed it. In resignation I lay back down and I feel it on my left side. I had taken it out right before the extortion incident and completely forgotten. To think you lost something and then find it, now that’s a beautiful feeling. The breeze was cool and lovely that night but I didn’t sleep so well. Probably just the first night jitters. Waking up often to check that the bike was still there. That should go away after a while.