British Airways US
In Karachi/Pakistan, I stayed at the guesthouse of the YMCA, a flat stone house with patio right on the shore of a Bay. There, I met the first Hitchhiker. A Swiss, a German and a Dutchman. All backpackers, very self-confident.
Across Pakistan appeared confident and organized. The people proud and balanced, clearly divided cities, close, but good roads to drive (because there was little traffic) and beautiful houses. Highlights were Quetta, Lahore, and some villages - with all its advantages and disadvantages. I was never alone. In the blink of an eye, a cluster of people surrounding me. It was only by rail by Pakistan after India. The jarring connection through the thar desert was thankfully short.
India. My goal from day one on this tour.
I was standing on the Jodhpur train station. On the one hand: I'm here. Finally and in General, arms raised. On the other hand: With a deplorable piece of bike I. My beautiful diamond machine was crap. Repaired hoses, tie yarn held together coats, wire kept the fenders in position, the bags were to the shame. Worse, I was missing the sense of movement for the bike. It slowed. I felt no longer as a unit with the wheel. I would still make Bombay. » There I find spare parts for your bike,"said an Indian to me. And I believed him.
I was now almost a year on the road, and after passing the ochre-coloured walls of Jodhpur I had 1000 miles to Bombay before me. If I do not would be stopped due to repairs, the distance seemed not very far. Again, I encountered camels. Cows camped on the road. American cars and trucks overtook me. I met beggars on open line. And the rain came towards the end.
Monsoon. Coming from the Indian Ocean for days severe rain pattered down. Whipped Palm trees, but the people rejoiced. I was less impressed, and slipped below - in a train station, a school, tea room, or a temple.
I finally arrived in Bombay, moved me in the train station. Unfortunately someone had stolen my wallet in the back pocket. Because what precisely happened $15 at the main station (Victoria station), I wanted the stolen contents here» live off «.» And it has prevented me nobody, in the imposing dome construction to beat my stock. I was in India, where most travelers carried their belongings and goods (i.e. sleeping paraphernalia) in bundles. And where camped in every street people. During the day, I wandered through the city. My goals: the sailor Club (where there was ice water), the beach (Chowpatty Beach, where dead fish on the banks schwappten and it smelled like diesel, oil and waste water), the port (not ships) and a dentist (which I moved a first molar).
Head scratching gave me my bike. I was practically on the bare rims. No drive was possible without new wheels, tires and bearings. Then I came across RAM, a bicycle dealer who changed my life. Because I did not have the means for a repair, I traded my bike against a British military rucksack with him. Used, but well sewn with pockets for the so-called little things. The Exchange reminded me of Hans IM Glück. Only I had exchanged the tent against accommodation in Gabès, then I gave away tool and air mattress (to drop ballast), I gave the jacket for edible, Flannels, socks, underwear ended up in the trash.