Five or six hands groped the chain links of our lock. I could hear murmurs of "no India, no India." And they were right, our motorcycle lock was definitely not made in India. A little girl of 6 or 7 tugged at my trousers, she looked up at me with big brown eyes. I said hello, and she ran off terrified. Clearly I was a monster. Richard was trying to kick start the bike to no avail. He was sweating in the midmorning heat, justifiably frustrated. Why wouldn't the machine work? The bike was wheeled away, almost stripped from Richard's possession. Endless bodies were trying to push Richard off, each wanting the glory of fixing the white man's bike. I looked up, left, right and around. Dozens of eyes stared back at me. Over 50 bodies poked, prodded, stared and hung off of each other, smothered in themselves. The police were now involved, randomly whacking people with their sticks and clearing people away. They just wanted a better view. And then the crowd got closer. A giant man asks us what we believe in. Richard hears and says Christian. "I am a Christian." This giant man starts preaching the Word of God to us amongst this sensational crowd. A man runs off, he can fix the bike. Richard has let him do what he wants. The man comes back with a sawed of clutch rod. Meanwhile the giant preacher asks for an email, instead, I ask for his.
The bike starts. Finally.
The crowd starts to disperse, and, as everyone is leaving I look down at the business card the priest has given me. His name was Louis. Handsome Louis.
We were in Hoalkere. A town where a white face hadn't been seen in over a year. Richard kicked started Betsy. I swung my legs over the back, and we left Hoalkere in the dust.
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