Learning to fly.

"Righteo then" says the Englishman with an elongated accent on the 'o' as he settles himself.

"Your throttle is on the right hand along with the front brake. Your clutch is on the left hand, now the gearing on these Enfield's are all backwards but that shouldn't matter too much to you because you don't really know what you're doing anyway". The man speaks the truth with a subtle smile and continues at his brisk pace with his accent bouncing all the way.

"What I mean by that is that the brake is actually under your left foot, while the gears are under your right foot and are upside down compared to most bikes meaning that you have to click up from neutral to go to first and then down to second, third and forth." I think most of the information is going in but it is all just words symbolizing ideas that are completely foreign but happen govern the 165 kilograms of motorbike sitting beneath me.

"As this is a single cylinder 350cc machine. There is the main neutral which you start the bike in and then a series of neutrals between each gear that you may accidentally find yourself in if you don't click it all the way into the right gear." I keep nodding through my helmet that masks most of my face but he would have to have been blind not to see the lost expression in my eyes. The Englishman stands on the bridge in front of me and speaks with a sympathetic authority. He is very familiar with this machine and speaks with the tone of someone who knows something intimately; with a friendly passion that masks their failure to comprehend how someone else could actually be intimidated by this thing. He seems almost unaware that his words are just words and that no matter how well he explains this bike that until I actually have something to associate them with they were a meaningless tornado trying to find order inside my helmet. But maybe he is aware and is just trying to instill some kind of confidence in me.

"Okay" he says again with that elongated 'o'. "Now get it into neutral by holding in the clutch, and clicking the gear pedal up as far as it will go. Now to get neutral kick it down one, but not all the way. Use your heel". I do as he says "Like that?" I ask. "I don't know." says the thick accent "You cannae see it, you kind of have to feel it". Feeling it is kind of hard when you have nothing to compare it to, I think to myself. Doubts crawl all over my mind. I haven't even started the bloody bike yet and I'm nervous. "Kick it over" instructs the Englishman and as I do it lurches under me. He smiles, not condescendingly, but kind of amused by my ignorance in the field. "Not in neutral" he says. I click around trying to 'feel' what I am looking for. I try again. Lurch. Shit. "Here, let me 'ave a go". He leans over and puts his foot on the shifter. He clicks it a couple of times and seems satisfied.

"Kick it again" he instructs "and give it a little throttle". My foot kicks down hard on the lever and the engine comes to life underneath me with a deep throaty roar. I'm one step closer but it almost makes me more unsure of what I'm doing. 'What the hell am I doing?' I think to myself as I start to sweat. I look up for more instruction but everyone seems distracted as their heads follow something going the other way on the bridge. It is a tractor. It has no front wheels at all and is kept upright by the weight of a trailer attached to the rear. 'What the hell am I doing?' I repeat to myself. I am on motorbike in the Himalayas. I have no experience, no idea, and the road is full of cows, dogs, speeding freaks and army trucks.

"Okay" starts the Englishman again with that prolonged 'o'. "Pull in the clutch, kick your gear up to first". I do as I'm told. "Now," he starts again as the smile fades and his voice becomes clear and little heavier as though they are the last words he will say to me. "Give it a bit of throttle and slowly release the clutch and you'll be off". I'm not too keen on his choice of words. 'Being off' is the last thing I want to think about as I ride a motorbike for the first time, but as I'm keen on the idea of my own survival the thought is rather present amongst the cacophony of instruction and lack of understanding.

My wrist rolls back, the noise and vibration grows underneath me. My other hand slowly releases the clutch and the sound changes. Expectant faces look at me. The bridge begins to move underneath me. I pull my other leg from the earth and it finds its place on the peg. The bridge starts to move faster, the noise grows louder and sharper from a throaty groan towards an almost pained, mechanical whine. 'Righteo', I think to myself. 'Release throttle, pull clutch, click down with right foot, disengage clutch, up the throttle'. The body manages to follow the thoughts but even though it lacks the fluidity of them, the machine does what it is told. The sound drops back to the throaty groan as the bridge ends and I embark up a hill of sketchy asphalt towards a family of cows and a shepherd.

The sound is nearing the whine again. 'Release throttle, pull clutch, click down into third, disengage clutch, up the throttle'. Yes. It responds. Blind corner approaches. As I enter the bend facing up another tractor laden with heavy looking dusty sacks and three teenage pilots with kerchiefs over their faces enters it from above. They sound their horn. I fumble for mine and turn on my indicator. The Englishman's words are still a chaotic jumble above my neck but some are settling like sediment in a bottle of red wine. Must remember the horn.

Pulling out of corner, power dieing. More throttle. It tries but the surge still backs off to a slow and threatening groan. 'Down a gear' I think. 'Release throttle, pull clutch, click up into second, disengage clutch, up the throttle'. The machine pitches right up and lurches as the sound kicks into a high surge and my speed increases further around the bend. I dodge children walking. I sweat. I blow the horn after they are behind me. I am in a village. Time to turn around I think. I pull to the side and the machine starts sputtering. I try to kick down a gear but my mind cannot grasp the sequence and as I apply the brakes the engine stalls sharply on a shelf of gravel and light brown clay.

'Righteo' I think to myself. I have ridden a motorbike for 30 seconds. I dodged some cows, a pack of laughing children and a tractor driven by adolescent bandits. Time to go back. I roll the bike back to see if I'm in neutral. Nope. Clutch in, click gear lever, roll. Still nope. Damn. Clutch in, click up and down. Feel with the heel. Roll. Yes! Kick starting lever. Bang! She comes back to life, into first. Damn this bike is heavy, good thing it has a motor. I slowly wheel her around, give her some gas and plunge back down the hill, with my finger on the horn. Whine, next gear, throttle, whine, next gear. Damn this is fast. The speedo reveals 30km per hour. Okay, it feels

Slow down, gear down, go past them and think about turning around. Brake, turn. Stall. Damn. I've completed the 180 degree turn and am now facing my audience who stand about 30 meters away all looking intently at me. 'Righteo' I think to myself, 'Find neutral'. I flick and I click and I clamber around. Failure. I flick and I click and I roll and I feel. I think I have it. A truck is heading towards me on the other side of the road as I hear something else lumber up behind me. 'I'll just wait for this to pass me' I think. But then the truck stops and the sound behind me grows louder. I turn around but I know I'm not going to like what I see. The truck cannot move around the bend because of the bus sitting behind me. The bus cannot move around me because of the truck. Sweat. Kick the starter. Bang! She starts. Click it into gear, give it plenty, - not long now until I'm out of this, I think - release clutch.

Stall. Damn.

Horns are beeping. Try again. Gotta find neutral. Click, roll, no roll. Damn. try again, click fumble. Roll. Yes. Kick starter. Bang! Up into gear. Give it heaps. Release clutch. fast. Peel around the blind corner, riding on a half faith that is aware of its own doubt. The bridge appears and so do the Englishman, his wife, my brother and my dad. I think I can see the relief in their shoulders from here.

Stall. Shit.

I look up to my audience. They stand there. I consider that my teacher is thinking that this pressure will help me learn. Horns. Bus Horns are really loud. I don't want to look around. I am sweating but try to calm myself with the idea that this is payback for all the times that I've been hassled in this country. The bus horn breaks my thought like a head of glass in a vice. Try to find neutral. Click, click, roll. Got it. Kick the starter. Bang. She's alive. Click it into gear. Third time lucky. I shut my eyes. Give it all the throttle I can. All I need is to lurch forward a meter and a half and this traffic jam is gone.

Release clutch. Stall. Fuck. I want answers. My 40 seconds of experience is strained to work out what the fuck is going on. The horns continue with greater frequency and urgency. Now everyone's angry. A hand appears in my vision and grabs the clutch so we are free to roll and with a sharp pull the Englishman yanks the dead bike out of the way.

The horns cease and the rumbling lumbers louder. I look up at the bus and its passengers look down at me from their chariot with dark judging eyes. Pair after pair of naked, black holes open up and stare down at me letting slip their scornful confusion and trying to soak up an understanding that doesn't come. Part of me moves to fade into the gravel below my feet but I just stare back kind of blankly. My mouth is hidden from them by my helmet but now the horn is removed from behind my ear the more perceptive pick up the slight, thin lipped smile in my eyes.

I take off my helmet. I exhale. I wipe the sweat from my brow and my eyes.

“Righteo?” asks the Englishman

“Righteo I reply with a relieved grin.

I think I need to let some more sediment settle.

My dad and the garden.

My Dad's a really good guy. And I don't mean that in the way that most people say it. Most people call someone a 'good guy' when they have nothing better to say about them. When someone is kinda boring or kinda forgettable but in no way harmful they tend to attract that kind of label. But my dad is different. He really is good, quite seriously; all good. He is good in a really sincere kind of way, all honesty and all integrity. He's a really good business man, but an honest business man. He'd never fuck anyone over for anything as he has this kind of humble honor under his straight up exterior. He enjoys lots of things and he enjoys them with everything he's got. He enjoys complex things like wines and foods, things with subtlety, things that require a degree of knowledge or refinement. But he also really likes simple things and can get quite exited by them, mostly natural things. He grew up in the country you see and he maintains that honest, earthly aesthetic. He can get excited about a sky, or a tree, or the colour of a dog. He can get excited by a rock if it's half way different.


When my dad finds something he likes, he likes it with his whole face, he likes it with his voice, he likes it right to his bones and he is never afraid to show just how much he likes it. I think my brother and I used to get a little embarrassed about it sometimes, I mean when we were a bit younger, when we were teenagers. Teenagers get embarrassed by anything their parents do. It's the way of teenagers really. Anyway, I'm drifting. If we were with our dad when he saw something he'd like he'd call us over in a crowded street with these beaming eyes and broad, white smile of perfect teeth and he'd exclaim something like "Look at that boys! What a ripper of a building that is!". We'd groan and roll our eyes like we'd been done some disservice because that's what teenagers do. Either that or we might complain with rolling eyes, "Jeeesus dad, it's just a bloody building. God you're a dag."


But dad didn't care. He'd just go on liking it. I admire him for that. He never let the world make him cynical and he just kept on going on finding things really good, and he'd always comment on them like he was the first person to see them. He'd comment 0n the most obvious of things. Seriously, you could be in the middle of a parade and he'd exclaim "Wow, look at that elephant!", despite the fact that all you could see was a field of grey, sagging skin because there was this giant African elephant right in front of you. It's kind of cute really, and I don't mean that in a patronising manner at all. Perhaps I should say that it's part of his charm. He really is such a good guy. But he is always stating the obvious. I guess he just wants to make sure that you don't miss things he thinks are good. That's a good quality really; he just wants you to enjoy the goodness of the world like he does, even if you'd have to be blind to miss it.


A bit like the other day. You see my dad decided to come to India to join my brother and I go motorbike riding through the Himalayas. India is a place that can really blow your mind as there's so much crazy stuff going on everywhere and you've really gotta keep your wits about you. You have to see everything but react to nothing. Absorb it all without absorbing it too deeply. I think it was weird for dad at first as his enthusiasm, indeed most of his current thought, is written all over him. Like I told you, he just beams sincerity. Everywhere we'd walk he'd be commenting on things when we were trying to keep as low a profile as possible so as not to get any extra attention from rickshaw drivers or street salesmen. This is pretty bloody difficult anyway as we are white guys in India with shaved heads and no moustaches but with dad being dad any shred of slipping under the radar is quickly abandoned. "Look at all that rubbish". "Wow, these streets are crazy". "Gee this place smells". "Look at those power cables will you?". "Bloody hell it's hot here". Now don't get me wrong, he never whinges. He's a tough character and he never complains, like never-ever complains. He just comments. He just wants to make sure we never miss anything, and we never normally do. I mean Steve and I are reasonably sharp and aware kind of guys, which is probably why we always found it funny the way he would point out the obvious; because we saw it already. We saw it, absorbed it and moved on. Maybe we didn't see it in quite the way that dad saw it, but most of the time we had already seen it.

Most of the time that is.

But the other day was a little different. It was only dad's second or third day in India and we thought he'd had it pretty easy really. He flew into Delhi, which I admit is a bit of crazy little shithole, but not too far out there compared to some of the places we had been. I mean it is a city and a pretty Western city in parts. The streets are paved, there is lighting, some degree of waste removal (although pulled by a donkey) and all things considered it was not too confronting. So that was his introduction. He had prearranged a pretty swanky little hotel for his first night and we were bloody grateful as we hadn't had a warm shower in a month. But after a night and a day there it was time to get out and start heading north and onto our adventures.

We caught an overnight train to some little town that had no more than a train station where you have to catch this other train that is capable of climbing the mountains up to Shimla. I was shagged, really shagged. Usually I can sleep on trains, but this particular night I was plagued with dark dreams and I had barely slept at all as I was still riding the tail of a four day sickness. We arrived at an hour so early that even a sparrow would have hit the snooze button and told you to get fucked. But dad was up and at them like a kid a Christmas. That's another thing about dad - he's a morning person. As soon as the sun gets its morning glory dad is up to meet it with a smile and a bad joke, just bouncing around under the spell of new day. Now Steven and I are not morning people, like seriously not morning people. I think I'd be practically nocturnal if you left me to my natural body clock. Steve and I are patient people, quite patient people, but I tell you what, nothing shits me more than having to deal with enthusiastic people before I have an hour or two to get settled, get a coffee or two under my belt, open my eyes and accept that I am actually awake.

I searched for coffee and only found Chai... bloody hippies. I sat on a bench with Steve as Dad bounced around the station with this excited look plastered across his face like a newborn puppy. Steve and I looked at each other. We didn't to say anything but we did anyway; "Bloody morning people" said one. "Damn straight," said the other. Dad kept pointing things out until one of us got a little snappy. I don't remember who it was but it was probably me. I drank chai and tried to pretend it was coffee. My imagination ain’t what it used to be. Eventually the next train shuffled off and chugged us up into the great, green mountains.

Dad was a little quieter but you could see it was taking a little bit for him to restrain himself from commenting on the scenery. I reminded myself that he was only 36 hours into his trip and that I was a month. I know a month isn't very long but it's a bloody steep learning curve. It doesn't move like the train that wandered and cut through the mountains, it was straight up and fast, like riding a missile with a cowboy hat in your hand and your skin peeling back off your face. I was really quite impressed with the scenery and as I started to wake up I became a little bit more 'conversational'. I was no orator, but I was half willing to communicate. I would have killed the other family in the carriage for a pot of coffee. Stephen was out cold in the corner, his head bobbing with the slow and slack clickety clack of the train, lucky bastard.

The train came to occasional grind at a station. A whistle blew. Dad jumped up and told us all how he was going to stretch his legs. My little crest of energy had come and gone and I lifted my eyebrows with a blatantly half-assed acknowledgment as I slouched into the space where he sat a moment ago. Steve remained unconscious. I sat there with my head in the corner looking out onto the quaint little platform where people were unloading themselves and yawning and stretching in the clear glow of morning light and a strangely unpolluted air. I watched dad from underneath by invisible eyes. He stuck out like a bride at a funeral as he walked to and fro, his eyes scouring the world like a million invisible tongues in order to taste all that he saw. He inhaled the mountain air deep into his lungs. I sat without so much as twitching. Then he walked up to the window with his big direct strides.

"Hey." I said with my pathetically tired and lazy voice.
"Hey!" He replied, with his kind of lit up as it always is, fostering his innate enthusiasm, before he continued in a still excited yet strangely contemplative tone, "There's something in the air here." He stated and then paused as though he could not put his nostrils to it.
"Cleanliness?" I suggested in my lightest of cynical tones.
"Nah" he replied as he feigned looking around and lifting his face up a bit allowing some more air to roll over his face. He paused again.
"Eucalyptus?" I suggested, putting a little bit more effort in this time as we had both recently remarked on how odd it was to see the odd gum tree in the middle of India.
"Nah" He replied again, although this time with a little more haste and almost a shrouded grin.
"It kind of smells like," he hesitated for effect as he turned his head a little towards mine and craned it in through the window. "It kind of smell like," He began again "a heap of ganga."

I almost scoffed. What the hell would my dad know about weed? I have been pretty forthcoming about elements of my life with my dad and I knew damn straight that my dad had no experience with weed at all, and even if he was telling fibs, he wouldn't have been near it since the 60's. I would have dismissed the whole idea off hand if it wasn't so extremely in how surreal it was. I shook my head and clenched my eyes and opened them again and looked at him. There was that silly kind of grin on his face that was both proud yet kind of loaded with anticipation of my response. "Why would he say something like that?" I thought to myself as my focus drifted to some place behind him, further out the window and as they did I sat up in hurry.

The six foot high mud brick wall that was painted a harsh, bleached white held back a mountain of dirt that sat under a small field of lush green foliage made entirely from that famously jagged, five pointed leaf. My eyes opened and my jaw dropped a little. Dad's expression, having noticed my expression, grew a little spark of cheeky satisfaction. I simply couldn't believe it. I mean I've heard about places where it grows wild, but that was just a bunch of words of lands far away. Now it was here. I was actually looking at it. I was in a land far away and I was looking at it, and it was fucking everywhere. Everywhere. My eyes followed it up and down the train platform and those little leaves all sat there like a stadium of green hands presenting themselves for a manicure. I breathed in the air as I simply needed more evidence than that from my eyes that must have been lying to me for some reason known only to them. With the opening of my ribcage, the air passed into my nose and rolled around in my mouth as I scanned it with the concentration of a passionate chef or a concert pianist. The air was loaded with the notoriously sweet scent of infamous grass.

I looked back at my dad and laughed. "Well I'll be." I manage to stammer with a foolish grin and a nodding head. "Lucky he's a morning person", I thought to myself quietly.

Pointless cantankerous rant #1

I cannot bloody wait to eat a steak.

When I get to Delhi, or if not, when I get home... or even halfway if I have a stop over at an airport. I am going to eat a steak.

I have pretty much become a vegetarian during my stay so far, and have been forced to in this particular town that is ultra religious. This place is so strict that you cannot buy booze, drugs, any form of meat or even eggs. Strangely enough we found a place that sells beer in tea pots and after dark we get offered everything from hash to opium, but I can not find a fucking omlette to save my life.

Now I must say that I am quite content with this new vegetarian thing. I feel fit and healthy, I eat a mountain of fruit every day and do not in any considerable way miss the taste or texture of animal flesh. In fact this eating the steak of which I talk has very little to do with the sensation of actually eating the steak.

This is the steak of vengeance.

This town, as many before, is full of cows, but here they are revered more highly and thier population in proportion to people here is far higher. If i didn't know better (and perhaps I don't) I'd almost think that these cows were running the show. They walk down the middle of every street, while people, bikes and cars move to the side. They saunter and sway right into your path, knowing full well you are there. Now these things I can deal with, they cause me little to no concern as I am absent for a reason to hurry and am happy to avoid these cud chewing demi-gods, but, I ask you;

What kind of sacred animal shits in the fucking street?

I am losing count of the amount of times I have been distracted by a foreign noise, go to look at an intriguing stall or casually stroll home, staring at the sky after a dinner of exotic wonders only to feel the ground under one foot fall with that unique softness and subtle drift from the course you suspected. Then that sting of realisation is sharp in my mind as I turn around to see the cow next to me look back with that blank stare that masks its patronising mind, laughing wholeheartedly at me, the fool.

Well I'll show you cow! You might be safe here, in this town, but I will eat your family and grow fat on the flesh of your sisters!! I will order you rare, I will order you medium, I will order you well done. I will order that you are burned beyond anything I could eat just so you can taste hell and hear me laughing for eternity. I will smother you in seeded mustard and I will chew on you slowly. I will feel your fibres between my teeth and your fibres, your blood and your body will feel the shape of my smile as you roll around my jagged mouth before being burned in the acid of my stomach.

I may have stepped in your shit, but this I can handle because one day soon... you will BE mine.

Primate games.

The other morning I was sitting on the hotel rooftop, after an early rise from a satisfying slumber. I sat there drinking coffee with freedom and possibly absense of thought, enjoying the dry hot air and slow melting breeze. I casually watched our waiter walk to the edge of the rooftop and look out over the valley of the city that thrusts from the earth like a jagged mosaic. The waiter, a polite but very reserved man, with six fingers on each hand began to grin. At first there was a slight hesitation, and a patient anticipation as watched something unfold. The grin split and became a smile as his face lightened and then shook with a genuine laugh. I looked up from my coffee and he looked at me. With one hand he points at what he's looking at, and with the other he beckons me over.

'This ought to be interesting', I thought to myself as the man had kept every glance and communciation with me 'strictly business', although we had been staying there for days. With a curious grin I got out of my chair and sauntered over to him as only a man on vacation can; loose and lazy with a constant languid expression.

My eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light and I followed the direction of his outstretched arm and extra finger to the rooftop of a few houses away where I saw the theatre which amused him so. A family of monkeys, with warm white hair and charcoal faces jumped and swang and screamed with shrieks of amusement and pure delight as they pulled all the clothes off some lady's clothes line and proceeded to swing them around, throw them onto the street, and have a few rounds of 'tug-of-war'. They galloped and bounced over the rooftop, hanging from the line with socks in their mouths and skirts in their hands destroying the family's efforts.

But together, Fingers and I just stared and laughed. We laughed from the belly. We laughed round, and we laughed wholesomely... and as for the monkeys... well they laughed with us.