The Ride

The day before we left for Cuddalore, the riders met in the office for a briefing.  I met a mixed group of villagers, activists, communists, fishermen (called ‘fisherfolk’) and cycling enthusiasts.  We reviewed the route, responsibilities, safety rules, and contact information. The group had planned all the details, but to avoid any police intervention, all riders carried a letter stating their peaceful intent.

As soon as the ride started from Cuddalore town hall, everyone worked hard handing out pamphlets and talking to anyone who seemed interested, stopping their crude and rusty bikes whenever they saw a crowd.  In between stops, they would sing or shout slogans.  And the ride was not easy:  we rode from morning, through the hot midday sun and after dark we  hit broken roads on our way to a night’s rest.  But they never let their energy down.

Our food was little more than mounds of rice dumped on banana leaves accompanied by a few sauces.  Drinking water was scarce so most riders just drank the bad ground water. They were mostly okay with it since they lived here and were used to the bacteria, but stomach problems did occur.  I filled my canteen with boiled water whenever we found a tea stall that would accommodate the request.  I would then get back on the bike and rejoin the ride, sipping slowly as the water cooled.

At night, our accommodations were whatever dusty flat area we could find, sometime indoors but not always.  Comforts were scaled down even further than we had at the office:  Instead of thin mattresses, we had mats of woven rushes. Our toilets were gone, replaced by holes in the ground.  Luxuries like sinks, toilet paper, cold showers or eating utensils were only memories.

You might think this would have brought the group down, but the end of the day, the cyclists smiled and joked over our banana leaf meals.  I have to say that their high spirits kept me from getting discouraged.  Besides, I brought my own spoon.

I couldn’t do any of the work since local people spoke only the Tamil language, so I tried to do my part by photographing and recording their work.  At least the activists spoke English.  Nobody even understood Hindi. Everyone put in a lot of work, so I had plenty to do. 

Of course, we enjoyed ourselves whenever we could.  Usually this meant resting in a shady spot, but once we enjoyed a coconut break.  One of our riders wanted to get in on the fun and decided to try to cut open the fruit using the sickle.  Watching him struggle, I let the professionals do it for me.

The stops varied from busy bus stands to quiet village centers.  Once, we took a detour to see the pipes dumping polluted water into the sea.  I can’t describe the smell, but you wouldn’t confuse it with anything good.  We even talked to the factory workers.  After all, they are here every day and can’t like it any better than the villagers, having to work in the smell all day and bring in drinking water from the nearest town.  I can’t imagine how anyone lives here.

We had a lot of interaction with a variety of local people: politicians, businessmen, laborers, even children. In one large town, a local politician decided to stage a photo op by handing out water bottles to the riders.  But when he refused to raise their issues with the companies, the riders gave the bottles back.  So the media people filmed that instead.  This led to much discussion.  Actually, most of the stops led to much discussion. I had to move around quickly to record the exchanges. It would have been more tiring, but luckily I had done enough cycling to keep up with the energetic riders – until a pedal came loose.

With my translator, I went into town to find a bike shop.  We found a palm-leaf hut surrounded by broken bicycles and random tools.  Every town – no matter how small – had a bike shop.  After the repairman had fixed the pedal, I tried to take it out for testing.  But a small crowd had gathered behind us, blocking the way.  Each person seemed to have some disability or birth defect.  I knew that this was one of the villages affected by chemical leaks, but still the effect was ghoulish.  My translator noticed how small we seemed compared to the disastrous effects of the chemicals.

“It’s too late for bike tours.  We need to get these people together and take the factories apart.”

I understood what he meant, but still, this was not the place for a planning discussion.  “Come on, let’s catch up to the group.”  What else could I say?  At least the communities were doing something.  Maybe if they kept it up, someday they would get somewhere.  But right now, the job of 20 cyclists did seem impossible compared to the size of the chemical factories that loomed in front of us.  You could go crazy thinking about it.