By Stefanos Evripidou
The first adventure began one Friday morning when four Delhi-ite friends invited me to join them on a weekend trip to Rishikesh river rafting on the Ganges. Now, I was raised to believe you had to earn your rest. ‘Work hard, play hard’ was the mantra my father drummed into me before I could even speak. He realised early on the work ethic gene had failed to make the crossover. Despite my efforts, the teachings never really rubbed off. But this was Friday and I had an article to submit for the Sunday Mail. It was time to stand up and be counted. Without hesitation, I accepted the offer of adventure but explained that I had some work to do first.
“It shouldn’t take too long. I’ll be done by 2-3pm.”
By 5pm, feet were tapping, tempers fraying and fingers typing. An hour later, bags were stuffed like sardines in the boot, frustration and anger dissipated and the five of us squeezed into the nippy city car, ready for our weekend adventure. The latest Bollywood Hindi love songs blasted from the radio as we all sat bursting with weekend energy, or in my case, with the elation of a new day, new life.
As we crawled through the city traffic to the outskirts of Delhi, the car’s accelerator, in an uncanny display of union audacity, called a wildcat strike and conked out, leaving us stranded in the middle of a major cross-section. Nobody seemed to panic as a rather large truck made its way to the side of the car where I was sitting; nobody, but me of course. The car had cut the road at a neat right angle, inviting a bashing from cars, trucks, water buffalo and camels. In the same random manner it stopped working, the accelerator picked up again in time for the Grim Reaper, sitting in his truck and rueing his chances, to blow the horn as he narrowly skimmed the car door, taking instead the side mirror. That was my first near-death experience in the nine-hour ride to Rishikesh.
Ten minutes later, a roadside mechanic, and there’s one every 100m in India, gave us the all clear and we were off again. As the stomach returned to its upright position, the thrill of adventure was restored, but this time with even more passion and intensity. Until, that is, I heard about the bandits.
“OK, we should be fine as long as we pass dacoit (bandit) territory before dark,” I heard our driver Shuddho mention in passing.
“What bandits exactly are we talking about?” I heard me stutter.
Apparently there was a good reason why everyone had wanted to leave Delhi on time. While I was arguing that art could not be rushed or manufactured like a tin of tuna, the others were hoping to make it passed the strip of road before dark where highway bandits frequently stopped cars and, at the very least, robbed passengers, especially foreign ones.
“Oh dear,” was all I could muster.
From that point, the sense of adventure evaporated from my body faster than the sweat chasing out the pores of my skin. I took out the bag from under my feet and started dividing money, business cards and other important documents.
“What are you doing?” asked Nandita.
“I’m diversifying risk, what do you think I’m doing?” I said, continuing to wedge money between the back seat cushions and hiding my passport under the foot carpet.
“Don’t worry Stef. If they stop us, you can wear this and they won’t tell you’re a foreigner,” said Nandita, lifting up her mother’s bright, white, three-sizes-too-small rain jacket.
The next four hours were not fun for me. Everyone but the driver was fast asleep. The fear of being abducted kept me more awake than a packet of pro-plus tablets the night before an exam. Add to that seven more near-death experiences, and it was safe to say I was wired. The chances of passing bandit territory before dark were diminishing by the minute. I learnt the hard way that ignorance was not something people easily owned up to in India. We had asked six people for directions to Rishikesh, and each time, you could see it in their eyes, they would have no idea and yet an arm went up here, a head bobbed there and a finger pointed the way it felt like pointing. We decided instead to rely on the path recommended by a helpful police officer. Fifty minutes later, driving 10km an hour on a dirt path even a Hummer would have difficulty negotiating, we concluded this could not be the highway leading to Rishikesh.
After five hours, a series of wrong directions, car troubles and appalling roads, we had only covered half of the 250km to Rishikesh. It was 10.30pm, there was no lighting on the road and we were about to enter dodge territory. We passed one unlucky soul who was trying to fix a punctured tyre in the pitch dark. In front, a bus was choking up the road at a snail’s pace, creating a cloud of dust for those behind. All the exhilaration I’d felt in anticipation of white water rafting down the Ganges had gone. I’d seriously lost my credibility in the back of that car, hoping, praying that the other four would voluntarily decide to stop somewhere for the night and carry on the journey in the morning. Then someone’s mobile rang. It was a concerned mother. My hands tightened in a grip as I said a little prayer.
“OK, my mom says we’re better off staying the night in Cheetal. She thinks bandits are gonna jack the car and leave us in the forest. We have family friends who can put us up there. What do you guys think?”
Heads shook and turned as my four co-passengers debated whether to stop or push on. They turned to me for opinion. Dressed in a tight white rain jacket with a face to match the colour of the moon, and my money dispersed in five different parts of the car, I spoke.
“Well, I don’t mind. It’s up to you guys, but I think it’s probably wiser to stay the night and start fresh in the morning.”
I bit my lip in anger that I hadn’t been more forceful in giving my opinion.
“Well, it is late, and I am hungry. OK, let’s stop the night,” said Shuddho.
I released my arm in relief and for the first time in a while, let my thoughts body surf to the cleansing, holy water of the Ganges.
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