done that

After planting a tree in Amritsar, it was time to move on again. Three days rest after 60km only is not much sport really, but Amritsar was worth it. Its beautiful golden temple, the hundreds of cycle-rikshaws, moving quietly about, the always goodhumoured, friendly Sikhs, with colourful turbans and beards, and of course the tasty and diverse indian food.

On the forth day, Mohammad and I packed our bags again, and left the guestrooms of the golden temple to have a last breakfast together. He was going to plant another tree at Khalsa College before heading north towards Dharamsala. I was going south towards Jaipur.

Just out of Amritsar there was suddenly a thick fog. I could hardly see the road ahead of me. This atmosphere would have probably felt quite mystically, if there weren't those buses destroying the cosyness of the fog. Buses in India seem to be bigger and wider than in Pakistan, and their drivers even crazier. The fog hardly stopped them from overtaking, it only inspired them to use their horns even more. Not that horning in India is uncommon. On the back of just about every truck, bus and rural vehicle is written "horn please" or "blow horn". It's part of the music, more than anywhere else...

After 80 km, the sun had been out again for a long time already, I see in front of me suddenly a lot of people and vehicles nervously moving about. When I came closer, a bus was even reversing, and more people jumping out of the bus and running back. Then I spotted a motorbike lying on the side of the road. In the ditch on the left there was a lifeless human body, and ahead of me, on the road shoulder a man bleeding with a lot of people around him, someone providing water. There were so many people around already, that I hesitated to stop at all, as I wouldn't be of much help. Since I left Amritsar, I hadn't met anyone with a useful command of english. But I had water with me, too, so I stopped, took the bottle and approached the crowd, yet keeping some distance. I couldn't even ask around, if help was needed. My help was not needed. The injured got loaded into a SUV, before some people went to examine the papers of the dead body in the ditch.

I continued my way, contemplating for a long time about what I had just seen. It was not the first accident I saw, but the first with casualties. And there were two things that annoyed me. First the normality of it, secondly the fact that in those situations I cannot cooperate to help due to a lack of language knowledge. A glas of tea somewhere along the road to Faridkot brought back my spirits.

Riding through Muktsar on the day after, the road in the center were closed to motorized traffic and there was an unusual lot of people in the streets. Most of them moved down a road, which was not mine, but all these people made me curious, so I wanted to have a look. But the road never ended, neither the people, and when I realized, that once more it was almost exclusively only men, I decided, that it could not be for me and I turned around. People were distributing food for free, which suited me fine. Apparently there was an important fair (like OLMA or MUBA in Switzerland). Getting back closer to the center, the crowd increased, and even by bicycle there was hardly any getting through. There must have been hundreds of thousands of people in town. After I found my way through the people I finally reached the other end of the town, where I had to find a way through hundreds of buses, trucks and other vehicles bringing more people in and blocking all traffic going out. It seems to be a rule in India, that people use also the wrong lane, even if it is not certain, that they can veer back into their lane further on. Too bad for those vehicle who come along the opposite way lateron.

5km later I had struggeled myself through this as well, to find out, that I was sent to the wrong road, leading to Malaut instead of Abohar directly, making a detour of about 12km. But there was no way of going back through this mess, so a accepted my fate, even though the road was getting really bad due to roadworks all along.

Abohar where I passed the night, turned out to be a dusthole, but with a charming colourful bazar, but not much else.

The following day I was heading south towards Hanumangarh. The road turned into a wonderful alley with dry trees standing in the sand, but almost completely covering the sky across the road. Behind the row of trees that would have rather fit into a desert, there were lush watered green and yellow blossoming fields (rape-plant, Raps). Then again, the villages were sandy, with camels walking around everywhere, pulling charts or working on the fields.

Just before Hanumangarh I completed my first 10000km, and 100m before this, the road again crippled down to the condition of colonial or even precolonial times.

There's a huge fort in Hanumangarh offering a nice view over the city. When I came back from a visit, there was a man, with a metal bar over his shoulder and two clothes knotted on either end with his luggage in it.
- "Snap?" he asked.
- "Snap? Do you want me to take a foto, snapshot? No." I didn't really understand.
- "Snack!" corrected a boy.
- "Snack? No, thanks, I have.."
But they insisted, but I still didn't understand, until the boy made a wiggling movement with his arm. "Snake! Oh no, no! No snake!" I said, I really didn't want to give him money just for showing me a snake, but money was obviously what he wanted. And I made a grimace, showing that I was very scared of snakes. The man laughed and said "no bad for you".

Anyhow, in the meantime there were enough people that had gathered around us, the foreigner, and the snakeman, that he thought, it might still be worth unpacking his snake, even if I don't want. I took a few photos of his show, dropped 10 rupies and went off.

I hesitated, if I should stay in town. I went to check out a hotel, and finally accepted a room, still not certain if I shouldn't have continued. Well, after I had unloaded my bags, I tried to carry my bicycle up to the room. But the owner didn't allow me to take it inside, instead offered me to put it into an empty shop on ground level. Because he insisted, and because I had neither properly checked in nor paid yet, I changed my mind again, loaded my luggage back onto the bicycle, grapped my front bag out of the room, handed back the keys and went on, spending the following night in my tent.

I didn't sleep particularly well, as there was a diesel engine nearby powering a waterpump all night. So until I got going the following day it was almost 10am.

In Rawatsar, where I bought some fresh water, one of the guys around the shop suddenly tugged Johnny, after I had answered all the usual questions of name and whereabouts.
- "Mister Johnny." I explained.
- "Helper?" he asked, apparently he understood the concept of Johnny.
- "Yes, he's my friend."
- "You only one?" Well, no, he hadn't understood the concept of Johnny, because he wanted to know if I was on my own.
- "No, two!" I said, pointing on Johnny "one" and on me "two". He smiled. This time, I think, he understood.

So Johnny and I hit the road again. The countryside became slightly hilly now, and there was hardly any watering anymore. It would just about qualify as a desert, if there were not those dried trees standing widely spaced in the sand. Every now and again, there were people sitting on top of those trees, knocking down branches with axes. After a while I noticed, that those working people were almost exclusively women. What also stroke me as a surprise, is that the women almost always covered their faces with the colourful silken headscarf, whenever they saw me coming. Just like in Pakistan.

After another night in my tent I reached the little town Ramgarh (near Chomu), from which I wanted to take a shortcut to Mandawa. There was a road on my map, but people in Ramgarh seemed not quite to agree, where it heads off (it is always much easier to find the right way into a town, than finding the right way out again). At one point, where the road turned into sand, there were two young men, one of them telling me to turn off to the left, the other one reckoned I should keep going. To resolve the dilemma I asked for a third opinion. The man pointed to the way back. Great! I went back, and somehow made it to a railway station which was way out of town. The road turned around a corner and ended up in sand again, impossible for my bicycle to pass. I asked a couple of women coming along. Surprised to get an answer at all, I was disappointed to see them pointing ahead to the sandy road. A man who joined us later, agreed with them, and promised me, that the road will be better. Ok, I will try (and push).
And indeed, after a few hundred meters I got back into a suburb and hit a concrete road. It was a small road, but it was good. The only thing that troubled me was the fact, that there was practically no traffic at all. It's going to be around 20km, and I really hoped, it wouldn't turn into sand, a few kilometers ahead.

After 12km I came to a crossroad, all for roads were equally big. I hesitated, but then decided to keep on going straight, when I just heard a motorbike approaching from behind. I turned around again to ask. The man confirmed my direction and turned off to the right. But suddenly his engine stopped. I looked back. Has he run out of fuel? Well, I could help him, I have almost half a litre of gasoline with me (which I use for cooking). The man waved me back. When I reached him he explained, that the road I was going to take is about 12km to Mandawa, but after 6km there will be desert. If I turn right, it will be 15km to Mandawa, but no desert. If desert meant sandy like before, which it probably did, then it would be better to go around. On the other hand, if it is still passable, it would be nice to go through the desert. I decided to go and have a look.

After 5km I reached another village. A man in the street looked at me strangely. Mandawa!? I asked. He nodded. I just started to continue, as the man said, that the road is broken, that I cannot go through by bicycle. How far? 6km. I was surprised how these people agree in distances. I still went to have a look, and indeed, the road turned to sand. I started pushing. Sand filled my shoes. It was like pushing my heavy loaded bicycle across a sandy beach. After 350m I stopped breathlessly. Continue? Turn around? When suddenly a pickup turned up from behind, I quickly turned my bicycle around. Even though it seems absolutely unreasonable, I definitely don't want to get a lift, it's against my philosophy. I'd rather push or make a detour. The car stopped, but it was full of people, there wouldn't have been any room for my bicycle anyway. I was relieved. A man who spoke english explained me, that the road will be better soon, as he thought I was going to where I just came from. I explained, that I came from there, but that I am going back. He thought the sand was for another 4 kilometers. Would have been doable, but still I decided to go back instead, and go around. It would probably not take much more time, but save me a lot of energy. In the village I took some water, as I decided not to go to Mandawa, but stay in my tent overnight. After all, this area was very peaceful and quite. This time there was no waterpump, and no traffic, as the road was kind of a dead end due to the sandy part. There was no noise at all, just some barking dogs far away.

After a peaceful night I got up, and continued back on the road to the crossroads, where I met the motorcyclist, turned off to the left, and came to a village, where I was invited by a sports teacher to a cup of tea, and then to visit the temple and the school. At noon I arrived in Mandawa.

Mandawa has a lot of Havelis, which are traditional indian houses with a lot of paintings. Walking around the town, there were many people trying to get me into there shops.
- "Where do you come from?" one guy wanted to know.
- "Switzerland."
- "Switzerland has for parts. Which part?"
Wow, I thought, this guy is informed. There must have been a Swiss passing shortly before me. But as it turned out later, it was common knowledge in Mandawa, that Switzerland has four parts (which is somehow a simplification of the language situation).

I had a good look around town, which would probably have quite nice, if there hadn't been so many "guides" after the tourists, sometimes really insisting. Well, I guess I have to get used to that, Jaipur and Agra could only be worse. I'd better get used to it, I thought with a sigh. After all, it's India, and not Iran or Pakistan anymore, where the locals don't know how to rip off tourists, yet...

> deutsch

30-10-2006

The complete report about my trip from Kerman to Zahedan is in Esperanto. However, the day when I travelled from Bam to Nosratabad was so exceptional, that I don't want to deprive my englishspeaking readers of it.

After spending two days in Bam, I got up early in the morning, well before sunrise. Today I was going to ride into the desert Lut. I was excited, as I didn't know what would expect me. Not only because of the desert, but also because the stretch of road between Bam and Zahedan has a rather bad reputation, from the security point of view. Three years ago, three cyclists were kidnapped here. However, I knew of three individual cyclists, who have all cycled through this area safely in the past half year, and just about everyday western motorcyclists departed from Bam in the same direction. I was going to give it a go. The desert was appealing me.

When I turned around the corner from Akbar's guesthouse, a stiff wind was blowing into my face. I put all my weight on the pedals, while my heart was jumping of joy. I was only doing a few hundred meters in this direction to reach the highway leading to Zahedan, which goes exactly in the opposite direction. I was going to have at least for 60km to Fahraj wind from behind!

On the way to Fahraj, there are a lot of date plantations, nothing like desert at all. Just before Fahraj, some rock formations reminded me of the Pinnacles in Western Australia. In Fahraj, the road turns due northeast, which suited me fine, as the wind has in the meantime changes to come from the south. After Fahraj, abruptly, all the green has gone. No trees, no houses, no life anymore, only grey rocks, grey gravel, and grey sand around me, and a grey asphalt road ahead of me, seamingly leading to nowhere. The landscape is empty and beautiful. Doing more than 30km/h I feel like flying into the void, from where every now and again a car appears with smiling driver waving at me. They know what I have ahead of me, I don't.

After three hours of riding I had already done 95km, after 114km I made a first break at the police station Shur Gaz. I sat on the sand under a tree. It is here, where I would have set up my tent, if I had had the wind against me. But my watch showed half past ten, official iranian time was nine o'clock - I was already living at Pakistani time, which suited me better. There is no doubt, I would easily do the 50km to Kahurak today. While I was having my picknick of dates, bread, apples and a few cookies, I observe joyfully the flags of the police station standing in the wind and pointing into my direction. However, when I checked my GPS, I couldn't trust my eyes. I am just 434m above sealevel, that means, I had not only had wind from behind, but I also lost nearly 800m of altitude! No wonder I had been so fast. At eleven o'clock I am on the road again. The desert now gets really sandy and yellowish, the way I always imagined a desert to be. To my right there are beautiful sanddunes, and again and again, the wind blows sand across the road, as if it wants to tell me, that it is still behind me, slightly from my right. I worry a bit, that the wind might turn even further. And the road decidedly does not go downwards anymore, so that I can not quite keep the 30km/h anymore. But after five hours and one minute of riding I had already done 150km. Sensational! 12km and less than half an hour later I reached Kahurak, another police station. On the previous day I thought I would camp here, if the windconditions were good.

But I was faster than I would have dared dreaming. It is one o'clock, not even noon at official iranian time. Should I set up my tent here, or try to make it to Nosratabad? There are another 64km to Nosratabad, but according to my map, the road rises to an altitude of more than 1500m. This means at least 1100m of climbing up. I started calculating. For 64km I normally need about three hours, for 1000m altitude I have to add about another two hours. In five hours I could make it to Nosratabad. The sun will set at half past six, respectively five o'clock. If I continue at half past one, I could make it to Nosratabad, even if the wind ceases.
Again I look at the flags pointing in my direction. Suddenly it is my sailor's heart speaking. It would be a sin to stay in the harbor with this kind of wind. Timely at half past one I was back on my bicycle.

However, despite a wind from behind I hardly get any faster than 20km/h. The load on my bicycle feels heavy and I start feeling the heat. Am I more exhausted than I thought I'd be? Or does the road go back up just as unremarkably as it went down before? Both is possible.

Despite having covered my head, I suddenly felt a slight headache. Was it stupid to continue cycling? Did I make the right decision, or should I turn around? There is no shade anywhere near, I can only hope, that sometimes one of the many little clouds floating in the sky will cover the sun for a little while, to spend some shade. I am drinking a lot, again and again I wet my head. To my right there is a big mountain range, somewhere far ahead of me the road would turn to the right to cross it. I wish nothing more, but to reach the bottom of the mountains. Then I would know, that Nosratabad comes within reach.

Suddenly I notice, that a pickup truck is slowly approaching me from behind. I observe the vehicle in my rear mirror. Why are the going so slowly? Are these the drug bandits who will kidnap me, or some other terrorists?
When they were just behind me, I notice, that the passenger is holding something out of the window. I turn my head to greet friendly and see that it is an aluminium mug filled with water that he is offering me. I remember the same situation in Serbia, where I was similarly offered a soft drink. Thankfully I accept the mug, and take a few sips. The water is even cooled! The rest of it I tried to spill on my head but mainly hit my back. After returning the mug and answering all the questions about wherefrom, whereto and where I learned farsi, the pick up drove on.

The road climbs another last sortof sanddune, turns right and slightly down onto a vast plain, at the end of which it disappears in the mountains. Again I check my GPS. Indeed, I have gained almost 500m of altitude in the last 30km.

At the end of the plain, before entering the mountains the road goes around an old watch tower. My tacho indicates 200km for the day. This has to be celebrated, I thought, and imagined myself opening a bottle of champagne and toasting with some friends. However, I had hardly taken a first sip, when I started telling myself off. In front of me the road is turning upwards and winding itself through the steep rocks. What a great idea, Mister Benno, First cycle some 200km across a desert, before climbing 600m up! A really good plan, well done! But I did't let myself arguing about it. Instead I took a last big sip from my imaginary glass of champagne, put it back on the nonexisting buffet, and accepted the challenge of the mountains ahead of me. And indeed, I found a nice rhythm going up, having steep rocks beside me providing some shade. At five o'clock I reached the top, and one hour before sunset I rode into the courtyard of an emergency station in Nosratabad. There was a man, cleaning his car, that I asked, if I could set up my tent here. He nodded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, that a cyclist comes along and asks in a broken farsi if he could put up his tent. I am happy, set up my tent, cook myself some tea and dinner before going contently to sleep. It will be just another 100km to Zahedan.

> deutsch
> esperanto

always this wind
(or: the lament of Multan)

always this wind in my face is not nice
if only I had it from behind once or twice
but from there there's pushing a police escort
and once again one of the nasty sort:
"come on the back of our ute for a while!"
"no, thank you Sir!" I reply with a smile.
"come on, there's plenty of room on the back!"
"no, thanks!" I'm shouting angrily back
and keep on cycling as if they weren't there,
it's ideological, but of course they don't care.

since Sibi I'm fighting with this sort of troubles,
since Sukkur my stomach with some sort of bubbles,
and always this wind in my face it's not nice,
and if only the roads were better once or twice.

I'm sure that cycling could be fun a lot more
that's why I'm heading now straight to Lahore
and take the train into Islamabad
to get some visas for the countries ahead.

(returning the same way by train again,
it's just an excursion and no slack bargain.)