Like Riding a Bike

Most who know me well know that I can’t ride a bike. Ok, I can ride a bike, but sixteen year olds can physically operate a car, and we don’t just let them drive freely on the roads. If riding a bike required passing a test, I would fail before putting the thing into gear. Chalk it up to poor balance or lack of practice, but it is one of the things I’m worst at in life, right up there with whistling, naming state capitals, and remembering how to spell the word “irreparable,” which Microsoft Word kindly autocorrected for me.

That’s what the opposition says. One puny argument against? The other side has loads up its sleeves. For one, the Peace Corps will reimburse for purchase of a bike. This part of Nepal is almost entirely flat. Having a bike would encourage me to explore some other villages in Shreegaun, my VDC (which is, geographically, around the size of an American town). It also releases me from reliance on public transportation. For one, this entices my frugality, allowing me to save a few bucks a month. But mainly it would liberate me from two things I hate: indeterminate waiting and physical discomfort. I’d often wait a half or full hour for a ride to or from Tulsipur. In my experience, ten percent of the time the vehicles would break down, forcing us passengers to wait or walk without any reduction in our fare.

Then there’s the actual ride, which may require you to squeeze yourself into a space smaller than your physical dimensions. Can you picture a jeep with sixteen people in it? Can you imagine a bus aisle where every row contains seven people? I’ve tried to capture it below, but appearances don’t convey the full experience—It hurts, and it makes me hurt others, which also hurts in its own way. I’ve lost weight since coming to Nepal, but I’m still a lot taller and wider than the average Nepali. I sit in taxis with my head pressed to the roof, my knees jammed into another man’s hips, my elbows digging into two other people’s sides, my bag clutched to my chest, my legs steadily losing circulation. Standing on buses isn’t much better; I cling to the metal bar as the road and other travelers jar me to and fro, both sides of my lower half pressing against helpless passengers as people tried to squeeze past me. Standing on a bus a few weeks ago, I elbowed a woman in the face; she, however, didn’t even react, as if a few bruises were inevitable when going from one place to another. Maybe there’s an art to tolerably riding in cars with so many strangers, but I think it must be conditioned tolerance or learned helplessness.

 Views from the back seat of a taxi

View from a local bus

“You have to drive on the side of the road, not in the middle,” instructed my five-year old nephew when I told him I intended to buy a bike. “If you drive in the middle, you will be hit by a bus.” He demonstrated this collision with a block of wood and a rock. I know this, I told myself, but whether I can pull it off is another matter.

The morning’s events, however, reinforced my resignation. First, I waited for a half hour in vain for the bus, which never came because this overturned tractor was blocking the road:



I walked out to the main road to catch a taxi, which came about fifteen minutes later.  Climbing into the crowded trunk, I found myself sitting on a very narrow seat on top of a sack of cement. If you’ve never had this experience, It’s unpleasant. Halfway to Tulsipur I lost sensation in my left leg, and, with nowhere to move, could do nothing about it.  Finally, we arrived. I jumped from the trunk to the ground, landing fine on my right foot but having no feeling whatsoever in my left, buckled and fall backwards. Luckily, a man I knew happened to be there to catch me, otherwise I might not have bought anything that day. Later, a man who sold me socks told me he’d heard about my fall from the taxi. It’s a small, small world for Peace Corps Volunteers.

I met up with Maria and together we headed towards the bike shop. With our limited budget, we opted for a mountain bike with wide tires and good shocks but without gears. The shop owner worked on each, meticulously fitting and tightening all its appendages. The equivalent of $73 would buy the bike, a bell, reflectors, a pump, a lock, and a bungee cable. I was beginning to feel good about this purchase. Then the shop owner invited me to take a test drive, and I immediately crashed into a couple of the bikes on display. “You should wait until you get out of the city before you ride,” he later cautioned repeatedly. Before leaving the city, I also purchased a metal trunk to store clothing in. Cheap and lightweight, it would be easy to transport, I thought erroneously. Brushing aside Maria’s apprehension, I strapped the trunk down with two bungee cords and continued on my way.

Making our way home, we walked our bikes across the bridge at the edge of the city. As Maria adjusted her helmet, a small crowd gathered. Seeing me struggling with the awkwardly sized, poorly secured trunk, some of them encouraged me to take a bus. Take a bus? Avoiding vehicles was my reason for buying a bike in the first place; to board another stuffy, cramped, and bumpy bus with a bike and metal trunk would be ironic, if not absurd. “No,” I told them, “I’ll ride.” With their help, I rotated the trunk and refastened it with the bungee cords. And then we were off.

The first few minutes went smoothly, mostly thanks to the paved road. Then the rock-strewn dirt road began. It began to narrow considerably in places where large piles of rocks and dirt had been deposited for construction projects. A bus honked behind me and then passed a bit to close. I began to feel a little shaky. Reaching up to itch my face, I instantly swerved off the road. I plunged into a thicket, falling off my bike and breaking my fall with my hands. I guess it had to happen at some point. I looked down at the fingers on my left hand, where three straight cuts were beginning to gush blood. Wrapping my fingers in a bandana, I dragged my bike back onto the road and kept going. Fortunately, I experienced no more falls on the rest of the journey.

An hour later, I arrived safely at my home, a bit sore and fatigued, but not much worse for wear. My family cheered my arrival. My neighbor took my bright blue helmet and placed it on his head, exclaiming, “I look like a tourist!” (he didn’t—he looked like a Nepali in a silly bike helmet. So what does that say about how I must look?). Then the predictable line of questioning began: “How much did it cost? That’s a little expensive. Did you fall? Were you badly injured? O-mum-mum-mum-mum (Nepali for “oh my!”), you need to be more careful.”

Two days later, I rode my bike to work and received a similar welcome from my coworkers. That afternoon I spontaneously decided to attempt to visit each village in Shreegaun on a road that purportedly circumscribes the area. Unfortunately, roads here are not so simple. After crossing into the VDC to the west of Shreegaun, there was still no clear southward road. I asked an elderly Nepali man for directions, only to be told to turn around and go back the way I came. I kept pressing for an answer, but he began insisting that he couldn’t understand English, even though I was speaking Nepali. Eventually he directed me to a nearby, narrow road to head south, which I took. At a crossroads awhile later I took a left to go east, in hopes that I might soon cross back into Shreegaun. Forty minutes later, however, I arrived back at the same intersection from the south. In the meantime, I’d gotten pretty tired and sweaty and had fallen again, throwing my bike a little out of whack. Disgruntled, I decided to head home. Tomorrow I’ll try again.