My Honda, take two

It seems now that Doha was just a warm up for Goa, starting with heavy exposure I got to the British, their lexicon and their sense of humor. I once called a co-worker and was flirting hard with him just for kicks, only to be told later the call had gone down with his girlfriend like “a cold cup of sick.” I was, to borrow a phrase, gobsmacked. Thanks to that kind of verbiage and irony training however, it seemed perfectly natural to experience two bike accidents the day after posting a love paean to my Honda Aviator.

There’s also the fishbowl aspect of life here. I thought Doha’s expat community was bad, but Goa has made me realize it was much more like an Edith Wharton novel, whereas this is truly a fishbowl. My two bike accidents yesterday occurred between maybe 7 and 8 p.m. By 7.30 a.m. the following morning, a woman I’d not seen and who lives nowhere near me or the scene of either crime, says to me, “Oh, I heard you had two bike accidents yesterday.” That is one small aquatic world.

In my world, though, I don’t feel so much as if I had two bike accidents yesterday. It’s more as if the accidents were thrust upon me. By a friend.

This friend is in town visiting. This friend wants more than friendship. This friend, I must admit, has had more than friendship. This friend has not yet cottoned to the idea that he is forevermore just a friend. Nonetheless, here he is, and so I thought, right, well, you’ve got to treat him like a friend, and not like an annoyance, because that’s the gracious thing to do. And so, after another ridiculously long day spent sitting on the cement floor of the shala listening to a ridiculously weird dissection of archetypes, fasciae and charkas, the last thing I wanted to do was hop on my scooter and ride out to the Purple Valley yoga retreat center. But I was determined not to be annoyed; OK, not a good start. Nonetheless, for this very British twist to the story--the reason this friend is at Purple Valley and not Brahmani--I should be grateful.

Apparently there was some fallout between the two shalas in Goa. The one where I’m doing yoga teacher training is called Brahmani Yoga, while the other is called Purple Valley. Both used to carry the name Purple Valley and still did when I signed up for the teacher training. Thanks to the fallout, different identities were quickly established. This friend signed up for a retreat at Purple Valley, thinking that’s where I was. In other good news, he’s not reading my blog.

Back to the ridiculously long day. I hopped on my bike and trucked out to Purple Valley, only to down a Nescafe so I could get right back on the bike and head back to Anjuna, where the folks in the Big Brother house are having a party. Food is part of his package at the retreat, but he told me he was hoping for some meat and so wanted to go to dinner with me. Wrong again.

Mercifully he’s arranged his own transport so at least I won’t have to bring him back, but when at long last he does round the corner it’s on a motorcycle. My heart sinks. His command of the vehicle is on a par with my command of this increasingly ludicrous situation. And by the way, he wants to know, where’s a bank machine and a petrol station? Gracious my ass. I’m annoyed.

THIS IS INDIA, YOU TWIT, THERE ARE NOT PETROL STATIONS AND CASH MACHINES LITTERING THE ROADWAYS. WE’LL BE LUCKY IF THERE ARE ENOUGH RESTAURANTS OPEN TO PROVIDE SOME LIGHTING FOR THE JOURNEY BECAUSE IT’S SUNDAY.

Out loud I give it the old fake laugh—hopefully you won’t need either! And we’re off. Sort of. It was kind of like the slow speed car chase in The French Connection. Wait, that’s some serious glamorizing. It was more like taking your niece to the natural history museum. I had to keep turning around to see if he was there, and at one point, like a dutiful child who knows just what to do when lost, he sat waiting in the exact point at which he lost sight of me. Now not only do I have to move slowly enough to keep him in sight, if he does fall back I know I’m going to have to backtrack or I run the risk of losing him altogether. Tempting.

Mind you (another Briticism), these directions are in fact all “straights.” Sure, the roads curve and they aren’t lit, but it’s not like there’s much risk of actually getting lost. Until we reach an actual turn. It’s busy. There’s no shoulder so I can’t really pull over, but I’ve slowed down as much as is humanly possible and I’m craning my neck to see who is that guy behind me, no he’s on a cell phone that can’t possibly be, oh fucking hell I’m going down. Again, I must pause and give thanks for the slowness, because it gave me time to actually think about throwing myself from the bike, albeit into a bramble of thicket. The dude on the cell phone stops. Suddenly there’s a swarm of Indians there to “help.”

My bike is lying on its side above me, still running and so shedding at least a modicum of light on the situation. I’m alive and intact. Right. Get up and out. Where’s my friend? Maybe he could pull me out from the front. For some reason I spend a moment convinced this would alleviate scratches. There he is, I hear his voice anyway. I can’t very well lie here forever, though, for fuck’s sake. So as I’m very slowly pulling myself up and out, I realize my glasses have gone sailing off my head and the swarm behind me is yanking at my bike. DO NOT TOUCH MY BIKE! I AM FINE. Nothing to see here. Where the fuck is my friend? The bike could not be easier to steal than at this moment. I NEED THE LIGHT FROM THAT BIKE TO FIND MY GLASSES. DO NOT TOUCH MY BIKE. DO NOT TOUCH MY BIKE! Where the fuck is my friend. Look at that, someone has a flashlight! I borrow it to search around for my glasses—PLEASE LEAVE MY BIKE ALONE!—oh, there’s my friend. Would you get them to leave my bike alone? And then the bike’s up and out of the ditch, which I realize this friend of mine who could barely make it down to help me out could not have possibly helped me do; a sense which is confirmed when, moments later on trying to help me out of the ditch he could not keep his footing and so I had to coach him—get your foundation solid! (Julie my yoga teacher would like that)—and at last I’m reunited with my bike which I’m wondering how I’m going to drive without glasses when I can’t help but see that fucking hell, the keys are missing. WHICH ONE OF YOU HAS MY KEYS! Annoyed is not the word.

This could cost me $3,000 in a hurry. Not to mention that my phone, my camera, some money, my backpack and books are IN the bike. Fuck fuck fuck. I don’t want to get on the back of his motorcycle. I know that’s a bad bad idea. But I can’t see. I’ve got it. I’m calling Bobby, the scooter man! I’d just sent my friend Boby's contact details earlier that day so I knew he’d have the number. Except my friend did not bring his cell phone.

At this point I let him know I’m annoyed. I don’t mention it’s with him, that’s beside the point anyway. We wheel the bike over to the restaurant nearby that is—amen—open. My friend somehow managed to have a conversation with the manager there. Perhaps this explains his late arrival on the scene? He rounded the corner and didn’t see me or the swarm of Indians? Maybe he’d picked up a snack to fortify himself in the midst of his confusion. In any case, he thinks the bike will be fine there. I’m not so confident about that. But, to borrow a phrase from the Indians--what I can do? I hop on his steed—I can’t see, he has no idea where he’s going or how to drive his goddamn motorcycle. Let the slow speed chase rev on.

We almost made it. Then there was that turn. Down goes the bike on top of me. I can’t quite figure out how it worked out, but the wreck managed to damage both of my legs. That’s special. Forget annoyed. I’m gobsmacked.

As happens, in the end it all worked out fine. I connected with the bike’s owner and got the spare key. I got into my room, because even if Big Brother’s dotty matron, Auntie, could not find that spare, she did manage to find a carpenter on a Sunday. At last I could see again via the spare set of glasses I’d brought with me. I even went to the party at Big Brother. That’s where the news must have leaked.

Given my druthers I might have gone straight to my room to lick my wounds, but my friend was still there, lingering with an unspoken yet palpable expectation. Once there I would not even have mentioned the accident, except of course I had to tell Nathan and Anna, especially since Anna drove me to get my scooter. Maybe that snarky snack comment wasn’t so far off, come to think of it, since by the time we returned with the bikes he’d managed to find himself a beer to sip on my stoop, despite being left at the party. At least I’ve not mentioned his weight gain. Had he sensed the thought of wound licking, it was important it be dispelled. Thank God Adriane was still at the party, because she lives just beyond the point where there remains just one, albeit long, last road to Purple Valley. Even if a guided tour home was all he was expecting, at that point I was not capable of doing being anywhere in his vicinity on a bike.

This morning after practice we’re having breakfast at the German Bakery, and it’s all coming out. Sort of, I still withhold, I can’t help it. I’m still in that Victorian novel, where someone else is supposed to tell my story so it gets all distorted and I can abdicate any responsibility for it. Anna, bless her, is having none of it. “You did sleep with him!” She announces to the group. I go beet red. Everyone laughs. “Not recently! Oh my God, I can’t believe you said that! It doesn’t make the story funnier!”

And then sweet, fit, Mel, whose dreadlocks reach out in a hundred different directions like a cosmic wayfinder, pipes up: “It does for us!”

I just lost it. Full belly laughing. Yeah, I know you’re only as sick as your secrets, but there are some things you just don’t talk about, right? I can’t tell you in that moment how good it felt to just have all the cards on the table. The good thing about the fishbowl is that we’re all in it together. There’s genuine support and love and overfeeding. Absolutely brilliant