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Reviewed by Muna
March 1,2002 The mosquitoes pester me all night. The alarm rings at 5:30 AM. I leave in the coolness of the morning an hour later.Themountainous roads of st.vincent are not made for cycling; they are continuously undulating and narrow with dangerous turns. Due to the rain and the subsequent landslides, I frequently find big rocks and small boulders lying on the road, which makes my journey even more difficult. On reaching Richmond, the path comes to a dead end. I turn back and follow the same path back home. The black sand-ed beach along the road seems to have no tourists visit it, but I see a few of the locals swim. March 2, 2002 It drizzles as I leave to start the day’s journey. Halfway, I have a flat tyre. I take shelter in the porch of a nearby house. People slowly gather around me and ask me about my identity, my country, my purpose of being here and the problem with my cycle. One of them steps ahead, pushes me away from my cycle and fixes my tyre. I thank him and give him $2, but a police amongst them tells me it is not necessary for me to pay him. The tyre-fixer man stares at the policeman. I insist he take the money, but the officer keeps coming in between our petite transaction. The man jokingly tells me, “maybe you should go away and come back to pay me after this policeman goes away”. I laugh, agree with him and ride away. I reach the Sports Council at 10 am, where I am supposed to meet cyclist Trevor and the news reporter Greenaway. They are late. I figure the rain has delayed them. I look over to the cricket field where players are stretching out and warming up before a match. Since the rain show no signs of stopping, I decide to watch the cricket match instead of cycling towards the East Coast, as was initially planned. But I do not like cricket. At noon, the weather changes. Neither Trevor nor Greenaway is in sight. Instead of sitting idly watching cricket, I get up to cycle around to see more of the place, but at the cycle park, I see that my back tyre is re-punctured and the valve is missing. Annoyed, I walk the cycle back to the city. People on the way comment, “Crazy fella, why are you exercising so hard? Dreamin’ of going to the Olympics or what?” In the city, I find out that since it is Saturday, the cycle repair shop is closed. March 3, 2002 The whole morning is a succession of rain and shine. It is Sunday and everything is closed, nothing seems to be moving. When I reach the airport, I buy many postcards and mail them to my friends. While reading the paper, a man sitting close by ask me if I am that “Pushkar Shah”, who had been featured in one of the local newspapers. I affirm and we talk for a while. My plane to Grenada’s Point saline International Airport lands at 3 pm. A hotel owner I had talked to over the phone earlier, Lyden, sends a person to pick me up. He takes me and leaves me at Wavecrest Holiday, Lyden’s hotel. After resting, I wash up and go down to the reception and wait to meet Lyden. As evening falls, two German girls returning from the beach in bathing suits walk towards me. They look tipsy and admit that they have been drinking beer. They are looking for a fun place for the night and ask me if I want to join them. I tell them that I am also looking for a place like that and for some reason they crack up laughing. After a while, Lyden comes and meets me. I introduce them to Lyden and ask them if they want to go out and have fun with us, they giggle continuously. Their laughter rings loudly throughout the hotel as though attempting to bring it down. source-wave magazine,nepal
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