No Room For Watermelons. Ron Fellowes

      4

      On Top of the World

      The cold air packed a punch, and the heavy grey blanket hanging low over the world’s third-most polluted city threatened to swallow me whole. It might have been kinder to my lungs to stay on the plane.

      Before going to find the FN, I searched for a phone-card seller.

      ‘I need to have your photo for our records,’ he said, yet barely glanced at my faded passport shot. It fazed him not at all that I was now grey-haired and a score years older. A photo of the flying nun would have satisfied him.

      The clerk at Thai Airlines did the paperwork on a ‘Hemingway’ typewriter — an ideal contraption considering Nepal’s sporadic power supply. No money changed hands, either for the bill of lading or the carnet. Soon I was cheerfully on my way. All so easy!

      Even though the customs shed was only a short walk away, a pushy tout insisted that for $20 we could drive there in his friend’s taxi. I refused. He stuck to me until we reached the shed, where he made one last attempt to get paid just for accompanying me. I sensed challenging times ahead.

      Despite repeated checks at the counter, for two hours customs officials shuffled paperwork. Two men took me aside, and, out of earshot of the counter staff, told me what it would cost to get my bike released. I guessed they were brokers, and that the real amount was much less.

      It reminded me of how often this scenario is played out the world over. The game is to keep the sucker waiting for as long as possible. Then, when his resistance is low and he’s running out of time, hit him with a charge they think he’ll accept. Call it baksheesh, a bribe, an honest-to-god fee, whatever — it all adds up to the same. In Nepal, Cancun or Timbuktu, wherever, it’s money that makes the wheels go round. Nothing is ever free, no matter which god one prays to.

      I glanced nervously at the time, then said I would leave the bike and collect it next morning.

      ‘No, no. Paperwork is cleared. Cannot store. You must take now.’

      I argued that there wasn’t time to assemble the bike before the warehouse closed at five o’clock. He shrugged, went into his office, and closed the door.

      The FN’s handlebars, controls and pedal gear had been removed in Brisbane to keep the crate as small as possible. Reassembling it, with every man and his yak getting in the way, wasn’t easy. Each took a turn at passing me tools I didn’t need; and each just had to check that the horn worked. My patience was being sorely tested. No sooner had I unbolted the metal crate than it vanished. The Nepalese know a bargain when they see one. No doubt the container would be sold for a tidy sum.

      Caught up in the urgency of the moment and suffering the effects of high altitude, I was all fingers and thumbs. The gas tank had been emptied before the flight, so I needed fuel. All the fuel outlets in the city seemed to be waiting for a delivery. What now! One fellow finally relented and parted with two litres from his own bike — at an exorbitant price. But at least I could get on my way.

      The FN started first time. After a short warm up, I was hustled out the door, still cramming luggage aboard as I went. I’d been told to show my paperwork at the exit checkpoint, but I wasn’t stopping. I played dumb, gave the security guard a wave, and rode on.

      It quickly became apparent that I had brought far too much gear, but at this stage, I had no idea what to dump — or even which way to travel. I turned my pockets inside out trying to find where I’d written the address for the first night’s accommodation. The hotel was in Thamel somewhere. The signs, of course, were all in Nepalese. As luck would have it, there were two Thamels — and I was not going to make it to either before nightfall.

      The bike stalled repeatedly because of water in the fuel. With traffic jostling around me, and horns blaring, I struggled to push the bike onto the footpath to drain the carburettor before I could re-enter the fray. At low speed, and with under-inflated tyres, the FN handled poorly under its excess load. And I wasn’t faring much better.

      As twilight deepened, the risk of being on the road increased. I had once ridden after dark in Bolivia and almost run into a rope strung across the road. I swore I’d never be that dumb again. I stopped to weigh my options, my knees trembling. The mix of thin air and heady excitement were catching up with me.

      ‘Can I be of assistance, mister?’ a stranger asked.

      I explained my problem.

      ‘It’s not safe to stop here after dark,’ he warned. ‘Better you come to my guesthouse. It’s not far.’

      My head bobbed like a dashboard dog. I was grateful for the offer and too weary to argue. Together, we pushed the FN two kilometres before heaving it into the hotel foyer and pushing it out of sight.

      The room was small, the shower cold and the bed hard, but at least everything was clean. I barely managed to charge my mobile phone before the hum of generators signalled the power had gone off. Exhausted, I switched off the light, lay on the narrow cot and closed my eyes. I’d just drifted off when there was a knock on the door.

      ‘Here, Mr Ron, something for you to eat,’ said the manager, grinning broadly. I thanked him for the packet of orange biscuits and crawled back into bed, appreciative of the gesture but desperate for sleep.