The Sandstorm in India

The sandstorm engulfs me like a swarm of angry wasps. Each gust fires a thousand grains of dust at my helmet and fills my ears with a noise like static, as I crouch by a drystone wall. My thirty-eight year-old Royal Enfield motorbike sits abandoned by the roadside. My hands sting as they cover my face. This is starting to feel like a mistake.

Several hours earlier, after weeks of nervous procrastination, I’d begun my Indian motorbike adventure at the Rajasthani town of Pushkar. My engine echoed through narrow streets of guano splattered, whitewashed buildings. Tourists, holy men, gypsies and cattle bustled about. Languars leapt from roof to roof, as cows poked their heads into sweet shops to lick the walls clean of grease. The scent of spices, rose gardens and rubbish filled the air.

My plan, to ride through the desert lands, up to the plains, then into the great Himalaya. I’d never ridden so far alone. I departed with a nervous cocktail of fear and excitement as I headed into an adventure way beyond anything I’d taken on alone before.

Relieved to leave the throng behind, I smiled as a green parakeet flew along side me while I put-put-putted along the black tarmac strip of the highway. The air was cool in the bright morning, and the road was quiet heading northbound toward the Great Thar Desert. Just occasional buses, 4x4s and brightly decorated trucks broke the spell of the road.

As the sun crept high, the temperature rose to a stifling peak. I stopped to seek shade under the dry knotted branches of a khejri tree. An old goat farmer lead his herd close by, their bells tinkling through the dry air. I saw the horizon ahead begin to darken with an ominous, low-lying haze. The goat herder hobbled along in his grubby white garments, paying no heed to the creeping darkness ahead.

I rode on and the haze grew closer, filling the sky as the wind picked up and the sands began to rise and swirl up from the desert floor.

This was a terrible idea, I think as I huddle by the roadside. I could be on a train, reading a book and making friends. But no. I’m alone.  In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by natural disaster, and relying on an antique motorbike that could fall apart at any moment. My romantic fantasy of cruising the Indian highways is becoming something much too real. But what do I do, give up? Go back? Or be strong, wait it out, then ride on towards the Himalayas. What drove me to do this? Some burning desire to leap headlong into a big adventure. I’ve never wanted to be a biker before. Until a year ago I didn’t even know how to ride a motorbike. But after months of traveling on busses and trains, not being able to stop when I want and having my life the hands of some crazy driver, the want to take control was too strong. I think of the old goat herder, hobbling into the storm with his herd in tow.

The mocking honk of a horn snaps me back to my senses as a truck passes through the dust. That’s it. Enough. There’s no going back now because this is happening. And nobody’s coming to save me.

So when the storm breaks and the sand settles down a little, I tighten the scarf around my face and wipe the dust from my sunglasses. Then I point my bike northwards, and ride.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.