Golden Biker Read online

  Golden Biker

  A Road-Movie-Adventure-Novel

  in India

  Alexander von Eisenhart Rothe

  Golden Biker

  Copyright © 2012 Alexander von Eisenhart Rothe

  mailto:[email protected]

  www.voneisenhart-rothe.de

  Translation

  By Andreas Liese

  mailto:[email protected]

  mailto:[email protected]

  Cover: Alexander von Eisenhart Rothe

  All Rights Reserved

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4689-1033-9 (ebook)

  Contents

  Part I

  1. Cologne, the present

  2. Secret training camp for Nazi-SS officers, Leipzig, winter 1943

  3. France—Himalayas / Spring 1944

  4. 33,000 feet above the Indian Ocean—present

  5. Himalayas / Spring, 1944

  6. Goa / India / Present

  7. Himalayas / Spring 1944

  8. Bombay / Gate of India / Present

  9. Himalayas / Spring 1944

  10. Ratnagiri / circa 125 miles south of Bombay / present

  11. Himalayas / Spring 1944

  12. Bombay / Gate of India / Present

  PART II

  1. Taj Mahal / Agra

  2. Rajasthan / 30 miles to Jodhpur

  3. Bombay / the suburbs

  4. Rajasthan / between Jodhpur and Bikaner

  5. Rajasthan / near Pushkar

  6. Himalayas / ca. 50 miles north-east of Manali, in the disputed zone between India and China

  7. Rajasthan / Pushkar

  8. People’s Republic of China / Beijing

  9. Rajasthan / Jaipur

  Part III

  1. New-Delhi

  2. Ca. 30 miles before Delhi

  3. Delhi

  4. Frankfurt / Germany

  5. New-Delhi / India

  6. K’un-Sa / Tibet

  7. Delhi / India

  8. Himalayas / ca. 125 miles north-east of Manali inside the disputed zone between India and China

  Part IV

  1. Kullu-Valley / Himalayas

  2. CNN / worldwide

  3. Frankfurt / Germany

  4. About 37 miles north-east of Manali / Himalayas

  5. About 37 miles north-east of Manali / Himalayas, next morning

  What became of them...

  Appendix

  COPYRIGHT

  Acknowledgements:

  Not all of you who have been bored stiff by me droning on about this book over the last three years can be named here, for they are legion. However some deserve a special mention. When I wrote the first chapters years ago in Goa I could not possibly imagine how many great people would get involved over time. My only intention was to write a funny book, including all of the strange and bizarre experiences I had made in India on various trips before. But when Peter Paulo Dos Santos (my first thanks goes out to him) decided to have a first edition printed in India (in German), which we then would try to sell in Germany more and more people got to read the book, I started to realize how many people really liked the book. Readers wrote very nice things about the book and more and more people believed that this book could be more than just a script, that gets rejected by the big publishers because of its jokes about Nazis, drugs and nearly everything else. (The book was in fact rejected by all German publishers because of its contents). Then Andreas came along (big thank you number two) who loved the Golden Biker and its black humour. He had the idea of making an ebook out of it, first in German, which has been out for a while, and then after translation, in English. We asked our friends and fans of the Golden Biker to become involved in the final editing and proofreading stages of the book and what a fine job you have done! Special thanks to Don Bowen, John Pollard,

  Tony Cole who has an interesting blog on all things concerning ebooks http://www.ebookanoid.com/ and last but not least Moi Sanom. Thank you all for your help. I really hope to see you all some day. Maybe in Germany, maybe Ibiza, maybe India or anywhere else on the road. Happy trails and best wishes.

  Alexander von Eisenhart Rothe

  For Luna

  About this book:

  Brought together in India through a series of hare-brained adventures are Arthur, an old bohemian from Cologne; Albert, otherwise known as Bear, a snack bar owner who emigrated to Goa; Gerd, a German businessman with a mid-life crisis; and Sherie, a stunningly good-looking prostitute from Bombay. Together, they embark on a mission to find a mystic figure in the Himalayas: The Golden Biker, who supposedly cruises through the mountains on a golden motorbike, to punish the evildoers and give to those who mean well some of his not less mystical marihuana... known among aficionados as the best grass in the world.

  However, the route the foursome has to undertake riding some ancient motorbikes called Enfield Bullets, across all of India is rather long and full of danger. Increasingly so, if you have a gang of ill-tempered Indian Mafiosi, two permanently stoned Israeli secret service guys, a gang of politically correct gypsies, one involuntary guru, a stark-naked blowgun expert, a muddle brained but fanatical old Nazi including his private army, as well as two freelance killers from Bombay at your heels.

  And that is only the beginning of a spiral of misunderstandings and catastrophes, which almost lead up to an international incident. The four protagonists however face all obstacles and finally reach their goal, an until hitherto unknown valley in the Himalayas... where in a furious battle all involved parties fight amongst and against each other, culminating in a rather surprising finale.

  Existing locations and typical Indian peculiarities are woven into this crazy story turning it into a humorous adventure story

  Golden Biker is fast and furious, colourful and a sidesplitter throughout.

  The author:

  Alexander von Eisenhart Rothe is a freelance writer and film producer. He lives together with his wife, his two dogs and one cat on the Balearic island of Ibiza. Apart from that he is feeling fine.

  Alexander von Eisenhart Rothe

  Golden Biker

  A road novel

  Upon a word...

  Some of the characters you are about to meet in this book leave a lot to be desired. Shady characters, whose means and intentions are questionable, to say the least. Yet even I, being the storyteller after all, regardless of my ruthlessly upheld neutrality, cannot completely close my eyes to the total abhorrence of these individuals.

  Furthermore this book contains references to drugs, Nazis, explicit descriptions of violence plus degrading sexual acts, which are absolutely despicable, and for the execution of which one would get a lifelong ban from even the remotest swinger club in East Anglia.

  The author would like to point out that he actually thinks of himself as quite a likeable bloke, who apart from a certain uncontrollable passion for Belgian white chocolate harbours no other dark chasms in his soul that would somehow justify the existence of the work that lies
in front of you. He only wrote it down...

  If these words of warning have not yet scared you off, let us continue with a question of utmost importance.

  Who, or what, is this “Golden Biker” anyhow?

  The “Golden Biker” is a mixture of myth, legend and history, somewhere between Robin Hood and the Abominable Snowman. Nobody has ever seen his face and nobody knows if he actually is, as legend has it, still riding through the valleys of the Himalayas to punish the wicked and to bestow upon the righteous some of his equally mystical marihuana. However, anybody who has ever smoked some of this home grown grass, the weed that bears his name, will never forget it. True “Golden Biker” is almost impossible to get and whoever has been lucky enough to try even the smallest amount, will tell his grandchildren about it.

  This is the story of the search for the Golden Biker, a quest leading across the whole of India and it is also about the largest stash of “Golden Biker” anyone has smoked, or ever will.

  It is a true story, unless I am lying, of course.

  Part I

  Let it be of conical shape, made from three papers. Never shalt thou add any product of the tobacco plant, for only wimps do this.

  (From: The teachings of the Golden Biker)

  1. Cologne, the present

  Let us sit back and being a non-participant, enjoy the eternal drama of men on the run. The classic scenario of a chase usually consists of a) the persecuted and b) one or more persecutors.

  This is what we see: up front a youngish man, let’s say in his late twenties. The first impression is rather normal: tracksuit, hoodie, and sneakers. On closer inspection we find that he’s also a stranger to the hairdresser’s; his scruffy demeanour crowned by a mop of lank hair. We cannot look too closely though, because the young man is running hell for leather. He almost knocks down an old lady—something the author distinguishes himself from—jumps over trash cans and generally seems to be in quite a hurry. This is not really surprising. Since he is person a), and therefore the persecuted.

  But wait, here comes person b) or rather two persons b) the persecutors. Both being little older, mid-thirties and if we were allowed to have a closer look we would notice a slightly more groomed appearance. Their attire is strikingly similar; both are sporting jeans, leather jackets and moustaches. To make their point as persecutors they have their guns drawn, shouting things like ‘Stop, police!’ or ‘Police, you’re under arrest!’

  Much to our surprise the persecuted takes no notice whatsoever. He does not stop to say ‘Sorry guys, if you wanted me to stop, you should have said so in the first place!’ or ‘Oh you’re police? Well I’d better wait for you then!’

  Since this young man is obviously running away from the police we can conclude that he does not necessarily want to be caught. We might also conclude that he is running away because he has done something the police might consider to be wrong. Let’s just assume then that this young man has crossed the barriers of the law and those two brave civil servants are about to detain him any second now.

  But wait!

  The young man turns into a side street and disappears into a tenement building. Is he trapped or does he have a plan? (This would be nice since the persecuted would actually prosecute a plan, a satisfying intellectual word play.)

  The two policemen—let’s just assume they are policemen, since they are yelling ‘police’ all the time—just make it around the corner to see the man disappear into the entrance. We keep our fingers crossed that they might catch the wrongdoer, as they too disappear into the building.

  Gasping for breath, Schmidt and Lehmann stand in the entrance hall of the post war building, facing a row of letterboxes. Somewhere from within the building they could hear the subdued strains of a pompous classical music piece, but apart from that, nothing.

  “All right!” Schmitt panted, lowering his weapon. “How many flats?”

  Lehmann counted the letterboxes. “Twelve”.

  “Ok, we’ll check them floor by floor.”

  Lehmann pressed the first bell of the ground floor with the nuzzle of his pistol.

  Nothing. He pressed once more, longer this time.

  With a shuffling of feet, the door opened just as much as the safety chain allowed. The face of an old lady in her seventies peeped through the crack at hip level with the officers.

  Instinctively they concealed their weapons behind their backs. They had no intention of scaring the old lady.

  “Yes, please...?” she squeaked almost inaudibly.

  “Good morning, Mrs... uhm...” Schmitt unsuccessfully squinted for a name plate “... uhm, ma’am. We are police officers. We are looking for...”

  “Ah, you finally came because of that hideous music?” The door slammed shut, and with the sound of the door chain being removed, opened wide. In front of them stood a tiny old lady in what used to be a pink dressing gown but which now had the dirty hue of an undercooked sausage.

  “It’s about time” she croaked, “This goes on the whole day since he moved in. There it goes again, do you hear that?”

  The muffled crescendo of choral music resounded through the hallways.

  Schmitt nodded sympathetically. “Of course, can’t miss it, but actually, the reason why we’re here...”

  “A noise fit to wake the dead!” she interrupted, “Me, I am totally helpless, I’m begging and pleading, always this racket, morning till night, just awful, I am telling you, it’s high time you did something about it!”

  Lehmann tried to clear up the misunderstanding. “We are looking for an escaped convict. He ran into this building. Have you seen him?”

  The old lady gave them a blank look. Then after what seemed an eternity she pointed towards the ceiling. “He lives on the third floor! You can’t miss it.”

  “About six foot, late twenties, blond, longish hair, hooded shirt, ‘Superhero’ written on it?”

  “Well I don’t know about his clothes but he has brown hair and a ponytail, like a girl. Doesn’t look proper... and he’s older...”

  Lehmann rolled his eyes. “Did you see the man fitting our description?”

  The old lady seemed to look right through them. “Why is he always playing such loud music, that’s not right, is it?”

  Schmitt pulled Lehmann’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go!”

  She seemed to have forgotten about the police officers. Standing in the doorway, silently cussing, she did not notice them leaving.

  The first floor had three flats. Lehmann rang the door closest to the stairway. Almost instantly an elderly man opened the door.

  “Yup...”

  “Good morning, Sir, police, we are looking for...”

  “About time! You’re here because of the music, right?”

  After another six apartments with pensioners complaining about the same noise they rang the doorbell of what appeared to be the most unpopular tenant in the building. The heavy wooden door was vibrating under majestic chorales coming from within.

  After quite some time and incessant ringing somebody finally seemed to have noticed.

  Muffled oaths could be heard above the music.

  “Fuck this! Why do I have to answer the door all the time?”

  The door jerked open and a depressing sight appeared in the doorway; a man in a soiled, striped bathrobe, long hair, unshaven face, a half smoked cigarette in one hand, half an empty bottle of beer in the other, all to the accompaniment of ear splitting classical music.

  “Next time, you go, you silly cow!” he shouted over his shoulder. He reluctantly turned round to face the two officers. “Waddaya want?”

  Schmitt raised his voice above the din. “Police!” he shouted again, “We are looking for...”

  Immediately the man turned round again and yelled: “There you are! The cops are here!”


  He jerked his head back, took a big sip from the beer bottle. “It’s because of the music, right?

  I must have told that slut a thousand times to stop getting on everybody’s fucking nerves! But she...” again yelling behind, “... never fucking listens!!!”

  Schmitt tried to remain calm: “No, it is not about the music.”

  “It is quite loud, though...” Lehmann added.

  Schmitt nodded: “True, suppose you could turn it down a notch? Can’t hear myself think.”

  Again the man bellowed behind: “Ritaaa! Turn it off, goddammit!!”

  The infernal noise suddenly stopped. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the house.

  Schmitt and Lehmann visibly relaxed. “Thank you so much! We are looking for a man, who has just disappeared into this building.”

  “Wha’!?” the man almost choked on his beer.

  “Yes, a drug dealer” Lehmann continued, “...about six foot, blonde....”

  “You wanna set me up, or what? Rita, come here and listen to this bullshit!”

  Schmitt appealed with raised hands, forgetting he still held his pistol. The gesture did not have the desired effect. “Just calm down, we only want to know if...”

  “Now, you just listen to me...” The man’s timbre dropped like the rumblings of a volcano about to erupt any second. “... I work the assembly line...”

  The voice grew louder,

  “... night shift...”

  Even louder,

  “... got to be back in three hours”.

  Screaming now.

  “... and I want to have my fucking peace and quiet!!!”

  “There is no reason to get upset Sir”

  Then in a hollering rage, which had all the neighbours wishing for the din of the music: “I AM NOT UPSET—JUST EXTREMELY PISSED OFF!!!!”