Country Cops March 12, Aurangabad, Bihar, India Traveling east, the sun drops before any city appears, and chaotic traffic instantly diminishes to the occasional stragglers hurrying home before we’re all swallowed in an inky darkness. Soon, I am alone on a desolate country road, again violating my common-sense pledge never to ride at night. Finally, after pantomiming my immediate needs, local villagers direct me to a dirt road leading to Aurangabad, a grimy out-of-the-way city drowning in poverty. As elsewhere in India, its dust-clouded streets are congested with swollen rivers of mingling pedestrians and overloaded rickshaws with barely room to pass; but there are several temples worth visiting. Crowds are unresponsive and part only for a slow-moving military jeep inching forward with blaring siren and flashing lights. I follow it as closely as possible in the all-consuming gap of rushing humanity closing in around me. During momentary breaks for directions, I am nearly crushed by throngs of gawking natives. Pointing to the bike, the curious shout in unison, “How much, how much?” Getting on my way again is difficult, as nobody wants to be the first to move. At the first of Aurangabad’s two decrepit hotels, the manager merely points to the door and firmly stating, “No.” This was not a good sign. Back on the street, a frail little man in neat civilian clothes steps forward, and after some haggling, takes me by the hand over to my bike. Pointing to himself he says, “Police. We go other hotel.” Assuming he’s another tout hustling a commission I agree anyway; there was nowhere left to go this late at night. Before I can stop him, he climbs on the back of my bike, and off we ride, him waving and shouting to the crowd to get them out of our way. The second hotel was worse than the first — red spittle-stained, crumbling cement walls with no running water and more mosquitoes than a Siberian campsite — but there was a vacancy. Certain a finder’s-fee is about to be announced, I prepare to bargain. Instead, the kindly old man merely shakes my hand while kissing my fingers. “You are my guest.” Warning me not to venture outside until morning, he brings me a strange meal of stringy meat on unfamiliar bones cooked in a greasy sauce. The source of this mysterious feast may have been recently swinging from trees, but considering I have had no food since morning, anything edible was welcome relief. Later, in a monotonous twilight hum, the wobbling ceiling fan functions long enough to dry my sweaty filth to a crust, and once barricaded inside, I climb into my laptop to record today’s events. Like a flashing disco light, the electrical power flickers on and off and mercifully ends at about the time my computer battery dies. Tossing and turning with an open pocketknife in one hand and an oil-stained blanket pulled over my head, I drift into sleep dreaming of Nepal. In the morning, I am awakened by persistent knocking that no matter how hard I try to ignore it, wont subside. With a bleary-eyed stagger, I pull the chair from a door barely hanging on rusty hinges to discover two smiling policemen in uniform, one of them the man from last night. Using a mixture of Hindi and English, I confirm that my evening had been uneventful and that post a breakfast of four fried eggs, I’ll be back on the road. After instructing the manager to report to them when I leave, we pose for a photo before I have to sprint for the bathroom. Monkey meat does it every time.
Posted on: Mon, 15 Dec 2014 13:26:44 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015