In Delhi

I have arrived safely in Delhi. I flew in last night, collected my bicycle and luggage and sailed out into the scrum of touts and taxi drivers confidently. I had already reserved a hotel room and got a pre-paid taxi to save on later arguments about the fare. Suddenly I was out in the streets, my bike lashed to the roof rack, watching the river of humanity that is India flowing along the roads in intermittent rapids of buses and taxis, with back-eddies of pedestrians, rickshaws and cows lining both sides of the street. It was surprisingly mild (my thermometer read 29 degrees, a far cry from the 44 degrees I saw a month ago on my weather page) and not raining, and soon enough I was in the bustle of Paharganj, the main tourist ghetto of India's capital.

Somehow I had forgotten how hideous Delhi can be. I suppose that it being the rainy season, the city isn't looking its best, but compared to Kathmandu, my favourite big city on the subcontinent, it seems squalid. Even the tourist ghetto of Calcutta, Sudder Street, seems less down at heel. On the other hand, it is a lot cheaper to eat and stay here than, say, Japan, and in a few days I'll be on my way to the north, monsoon floods permitting.

Two days ago, on the 6th, I had a quiet last day riding to Narita airport. The night before I had been glad to be staying indoors at my friend Nick's house in Oyama, as torrential rains beat down all night. I left the next morning and soon, to my delight, the rains stopped and the weather stayed dry all the way to Narita. I rode south and then east, cutting through Noda, the home of Kikkoman Soy Sauce, along one of the most unpleasant roads in Japan. I used to think that Route 4, Janan's version of the Trans-Canada Highway, was the worst road in the country to cycle along, but I realize now that I was naive and ignorant of the true horror of prefectural road 17, which has all the snarling truck traffic of Route 4 but only 2 narrow lanes, no shoulder or sidewalk and nothing scenic to recommend it. I stopped in for tea with Satomi, one of my students who's going to be a math teacher in my old stomping ground of Morogoro, Tanzania, where I lived with my family 24 years ago.

Then I continued, past endless factories, warehouses, asphalt and concrete, through woods ankle-deep in garbage thrown out of passing cars, until I found a shortcut to the Tone River embankment. Japan, with its mania for pouring concrete, has devoted billions of dollars to paving the banks of most of its rivers, but the really big ones are spared this fate, being hemmed in at a respectful distance by huge earthen dikes topped with small roads. Along the Tone, these dike-top roads are closed to cars, leaving them the preserve of cyclists and joggers, so I spent a couple of happy hours in peace and quiet, looking out over the rice fields to the south and the bird-filled marshes towards the actual river, zipping along. Eventually I turned off and headed south on the last 15 km leg to the airport. I found a ramen restaurant run by an ex-sumo wrestler and stuffed myself silly on chanko ramen, a protein-rich dish that is used to fatten up sumo wrestlers. It was possibly the most filling meal I've ever had in Japan, and the perfect antidote to the hunger caused by riding 100 km.

I camped in a disused lot close to the airport, got up early and rode the last 10 km to Narita, arriving in plenty of time to disassemble the bike, pack all the luggage into one monstrous backpack (plus some carry-on items), pick up my ticket and check in. The airport police were suspicious and made a note of my Alien Registration Card details; I wonder if my employers will get a call about a dodgy-looking employee of theirs taking his bike apart outside their police station. At check-in, I got a nasty surprise. I'm always over the luggage allowance, but usually I get away with it, or with paying $50 for having outsized luggage, to wit my bike. This time, however, with 38 kilos (24 kg of luggage and 14 kg of bike), they wanted to charge me. They very nicely only charged me for 8 extra kilos, rather than the 18 kg by which I exceeded the limit, but my jaw dropped when I saw the bill: US$ 350! I begged. I pleaded. I protested. I batted my eyelashes at the attractive check-in clerk. I told them that I was a penny-pinching bike tourist on a world tour. Eventually, in the face of my stubbornness, they consulted with management and told me, quietly, that they would make an exception, but JUST THIS ONCE! I thanked them profusely and scuttled off before they changed their minds. In the end, the flight was 80% empty (I had 4 seats to myself to stretch out and sleep), so it wasn't a question of weight, and I was glad that I was able to charm my way through. On the way, the captain pointed out distant Himalayan peaks that may or may not have been the Everest group poking out behind towering monsoon cumulonimbus clouds.

So now I hope to cross paths with some friends who are returning from trekking and cycling in the Himalayas; I hope they have some good tips. The newspapers (my favourite part of India: 5 cents for a great English-language daily, full of news, with cryptic crosswords and chess columns) are full of accounts of landslides, floods and washed-out bridges to the north caused by monsoon rains. I hear that the road from Kullu to Manali, along which I hope to cycle to continue getting my flabby legs into shape, is cut by a landslide at the moment. I hope that the papers are right and that the worst of the torrential rains will now sweep to the northeast and inundate Assam and Bangladesh rather than Himachal Pradesh and Kashmir.

So until I leave Delhi in a few days, I will amuse myself eating great Indian food and watching the endless theatres of the streets here. My current favourite sight is that of 10 schoolgirls in uniform crammed into, or hanging onto the sides of, one cycle rickshaw pedalled by a wisp of a man whose every muscle fibre strains from the exertion. It's an image to remember if I ever feel sorry for myself and my 30 kg of luggage in the mountains.