I cycled out for a pint last night

Expats

Written by Peter Francon

Friday, 13 February 2009 09:00

The power had gone, it's normal, we expect it; at 4pm the internet disconnects, the lights go off and all around it goes quiet. No more pumps or machines, a strange hush descends.

The choices narrow, I could continue work; the laptop battery lasts about 2 hours. But I've done my work, save those hours for later. Go for a short cycle ride I thought. The sun was shining it was still warm out. I'd cycle to nearby neighbourhood and close the deal on my solar panels. Their office is a 12 minute cycle ride, a little bit of up and then it's pretty much downhill. Not too stressful on my sit-up-and-beg Indian large-wheeled bicycle.

The sales engineer and I had met more than once, we'd discussed my requirements, how many light bulbs, did we watch television, how many computers would we want the fridge? I wanted to understand the marketplace for such kit and took my time researching.

Solar panels or photo-voltaic cells are a growing business here in the capital. Despite small decreases in the hours of load-shedding - the common euphemism for ‘switching off thieves' or reducing the load. The rain has stopped coming, there's been too little snow, the water's stopped flowing and the reservoirs are dry. Dwindling water supplies means far less hydro-power, soon there would be little power left.

It's a simple system, powered purely by the sun. It'll change our lives, back to nearly normal. We'd like to run two computers, a modem and router, 3 or 4 lights and the odd DVD. Schoolboy physics and a little research, combined with the published schedule of outages, I calculated and planned our salvation.

It'll come in pieces, batteries, invertors and plugs and cables. Solar panels and frames and wires. From different suppliers across town. Opt for the system, but the margins are high, so I'd found the best prices through footslog and talking.

We agreed on the price and they would come on Wednesday to start fitting the panels. Done and dusted and unlock the cheap Chinese lock and in seconds I was back in the saddle and heading north.

North bound's a climb and a battle with traffic, it doesn't move fast, but I'm ‘low in the order'. Cyclists are one from the bottom when it comes to right of way but it's daring pedestrian who risk it all. It's a glide past China, the embassy at least, over Tukuche khola, no longer a stream, now an open sewer. Down round the corner, the organic restaurant, the secondary modern and the CableNet office. The road is wide only for two and deep rain gutters are a constant danger. A last little burst, take the junction at speed, judge the gap well and slip into the flow. I keep right but nobody stops.

In the final analysis the Altlas Kranti comes through shining. Its steep rake and big string wheels, afford it the agility required to survive. Skim past the rubbish holding area, dodging a ragged line of Safa Tempos, all waiting to charge. Duck and dive and dodge and swerve, push hard up to Nepal's National Bank. Like The Bank of England buty in Rana style. Wedding cake gate house, icing topped pillars. It's a Rana Palace where they stash the gold.

By the bank it's steep I get off and walk - no point in injury whilst out for a ride, but the climbs levels out, ucallo ni terso, ‘steep up and level'; a word for every type of slope. Past daughter's school and up towards Russia, the embassy at least, high walls and austere, no clue what's inside.

NGOs, play-schools and shops, the International Organisation for Migration behind clean white walls; my side, in the street so many jeeps and busses, their drivers the Yatayat devils.

Nearly there, just nip down a side street, park up in the yard. Lock the ‘Kranti' - like a billion other cycles in Asia, it sits on a standard rear fold-down stand. I shut the gate and climbed three floors. Views all around, the sun shine is warm. I'd come to see Pascal, he's a techie like me.

We chat about stuff, ideas and projects, we cover the news and talk about work. Technical talk our weekly-cum-social. Movies, TV and current affairs, who's done what and ‘how stupid they were'. And then the sun went down, it was time to head out. I would be dark at home, I felt a slight thirst coming on. I'd come for a ride. I'd ride to the bar.

Several options of routes came to mind, the Prime Minister's road or the one beyond. So I stick it right at the PM's place and check out the road. I'd ridden that way last some time ago - it's windy and narrow between high brick walls, the surface was damaged and called for a dance, swerve the potholes avoid the rubbish.

There's a little dip at the Chief Justice's house, twixt two ill placed speed bumps, soldiers stand sentinel. I put on the pressure to climb back up and into the curves and the prospect of potholes.

Imagine my joy, when speed followed smooth, the wheels sped faster, smoother, more firmly, gripping the surface, swing left swing right, not a care in the dark. The road's been resurfaced, with a gentle orralo, downhill urging faster. Someone coming! Squeeze hard on the brakes, get under control, and skip past the veg sellers who are heading for home. Their daily load sold. Their wide round baskets suspended below crossbars, empty but for simple scales and a scatter of weights. From morning markets to households, they push their finely balanced loads all over town. Their cycles are filthy, chains sag derailed, brakes barely work and the paint's all gone. I marvel at their hard work ethic; then I'm back in the thick of it, on main road to town.

I slipped seamlessly into the traffic, the Safa tempos and micros, and too many taxis, motorcycles and jeeps. It's the last leg now, the bar is in sight. A man steps out, street dogs fight, the gutter their playground. And I'm turning right but it takes some care. Solid traffic to north and south. I'm there safe and sound and I park my bike. The boy wants some money as I leave to leave it in his care. "Tick chha bai, ma pheri aundaichhu." OK younger brother, I'm coming back. It's one of my locals, Jazz Upstairs, I'm on for a pint.

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