19 November 1999

Had a rather dangerous time of it yesterday. It started with being taken through Lahore on the back of a motorbike by Sumair the Minister's son. He adheres to the local custom of driving like a lunatic. I lost count of the red lights we sped through, the narrow crevices between careering rickshaw and swerving car/bus/truck we hared through, plus the maverick elements of meandering bicycles and zig-zagging motorbikes and precipitous pedestrians, and all the time I was thinking 'I'm only wearing a t-shirt and that tarmac is a blur'. Anyone's mother would have suffered a cardiac, mine could've had three.

12 November 1999

This effort, planned for nearly two years, was meant to symbolise the heartfelt solidarity of activistas across the world, as well as raising a bit of dosh. It could only attain that symbolism by being an exagerrated accomplishment, a feat if you will. Far as I know its raised almost no money and will succeed through a variety of transportation that any fool could have managed. THIS is my problem. Those sepia dreams of grandchild on knee gasping at grandad's hitherto unsuspected derring do have vanished, swept out by a very prosaic broom. And I have to go through the fanfare of my arrival in Bhopal feeling like a fraud. There's more but I think I should spare you. Sending this off...'

I think I'm being hard on myself there, but it comes down to this: I do it properly and get to Bhopal when everybody has gone home, or I cheat and take part in the anniversary events (media, demonstrations, memorial unveiling, international conference for toxic victims etc.) - which is what Sathyu is insisting on. I don't like the choices but I have to make one. It would be more useful for me to be a part of everything than to save my integrity.

Once people have pledged towards this surely it is for the cause rather than the feat? I hope...

11 November 1999

Happy trekker? You make me sound like a moonie. Things are well. I'm in Lahore, got here yesterday. The bruthas insisted that I didn't take the train cos it went through the Sindh interior (Karachi is in the Sindh) so was way too dangerous. Instead they bought me a flight on Pakistan Air which took just over an hour. At 50 dollars it was only 35 more than the train, which took 26 hours through bandit territory. On the plane I sat next to a Pakistani man who eschews the train because of the danger. The right move I think.

Spent Monday night in Karachi with the bruthas at their training centre, wherein there were about 50 brand new computers all at my disposal. They fed me, arranged the flight, hired a van to take me to the airport on time etc... I also enjoyed celebrity status amongst their friends and students. People can't do enough here, they are so far away from depictions of gun toting Muslim fanatics its ludicrous. Having said that, they do tote guns.

Also having said that I was taken to the Lion's den last night. Met the son of a (former, recently deposed) Pakistani minister who sidled along with me on his motorbike as I cycled from the airport. The road was excellent because it also takes Pakistani politicians from the airport. One turn off and the story was different; the REAL Pakistan. Soon I was dodging handcarts, rubbish piles, potholes, manure, pedestrians with loads, buzzing motorbikes, burping rickshaws, choking buses, cars and meandering bicycles.

In Pakistan there are no rules: the locals are delighted as they tell you this. From every direction there are hurtling vehicles, all the time. They also stop very quickly in front of you and travel on the wrong side of the road.

So we travel along, the smell of burning cloves added to the fumes, and we end up at his home in an affluent enclave but 50 yards from a poor area and a huge labyrinth of a bazaar. The armed guards keep the enclave just that. There are armed guards for everything here, even my cheap hotel has two. We walked to the bazaar and if you tried to imagine this place you would maybe half get there. Streets barely wide enough to push a cart through streaming with people and vehicles and noise and smells, from effluence to delicate oils and spices. The colours of everything seem fuller, iridescent, as though the dolby had been turned off. I saw breathtaking cloths and silks here, yellows and sunset orange and deep reds, carts covered in short sticks of sugar cane, cauldrons full of bubbling animal fat, jewelers, pan stalls...

Sumair took me to an acquaintance who he told me was 'the man' of the bazaar. He seemed dangerous enough to grace this position, broad shouldered and tense, and had a way of squeezing the jaw muscles as his chin moved sideways which had the effect of enlarging his slowly moving eyes by pushing them slightly from the sockets. He gave me a pepsi and we sat in small raised room, very unclean, in front of which someone was frying large battered fish in that cauldron of oil. After Sumair and he discussed me for a while in Urdu, Sumair explained that if I had any trouble while in Lahore, with robbers or whatever, this man would 'hang them up for you'. 'Well', I chuckled, 'I don't know if I'd want them killed exactly'. After we left the bazaar Sumair confided that the man had asked Sumair's permission take me off his hands. All the time he'd been like a cat watching a fat, grounded bird.

My hotel room backs onto a main road. The hotel is situated on a kind of square next to a large mosque called Data Sahib. Its an area of mayhem because three or four main roads come together and there are many pilgrims and stores. The population seems entirely male. The noise created in my room by rickshaws, trucks, clattering things, motorbikes, music and human hubbub is quite remarkable; I reasoned that it would calm at about 11.00pm. It didn't stop all night, so I feel asleep about 5.30 and woke at 1.00, meaning I missed most of the day. Tomorrow I'll cycle to Amritsar and the Golden temple only 30 kilometres away.

31 October 1999

Clocks went back here too in meek conformity. Three hours difference would have made me feel I'd gotten further. Einollah the Iranian refugee staying at my hotel is the entire fruitcake. I took him out for cheap lunch the other day (he has no money cos the UN give it straight to the hotel) and he caused quite a scene at the Bufe I was trying to order from. First he ordered milk instead of a sandwich, then stood there complaining that he didn't want milk, then he began haranguing the doner makers about the kind of garnish they were putting in our kebabs. We were not allowed pickles or peppers you see. Why not? Well, the peppers they will poison you, believe me Teem, I know. Okay I thought, I've heard some new age nutritionists warn about the effect of too much chilli, fair enough; except for his intractable dogmatism on the issue. But Einollah, I like peppers, they enrich the sandwich. Please Tim, just this time, for me Teem, for me (puppy eyes).

Alright, this once (glancing at the overworked exasperated fillers)... He then supervised the removal of all pepper like objects, all of 'em, from the inside of the kebabs. The chicken was chilled and bland when I finally bit into it.

We sat down and I noticed with satisfaction there was a baclava seller to our right. Baclava has succoured my post-suckered condition. Mmm, great, baclava. Do you... er, like baclava Einollah? No Teem, the devil is in it. Er, (pause) I see, how did he get in there? Well, its because of the lasers and the robots. You are infected with the lasers like me now because your fingerprints are on the Sprite can. See? Its very dangerous. The lasers work with the robots and get into your blood. They will work with the baclava also. You can't eat it Tim. But I like baclava, I've been eating it for weeks and ... and I'm fine, its only syrup and pastry and nuts - no Tim, you don't understand, its hard to explain, it will poison you believe me.

Einollah, I want to eat baclava and I'm going to eat it. I conceded to you on the peppers question (getting up) but this is going too far- No, (grabbing my arm) please Tim I am right, please no baclava, please....

Since then I've found out that his Turkish girlfriend, who lives in the hotel and is carrying four of his children, is actually only there sleeping in his bed in spirit form. Its hard to explain. And they change the streets around here all the time. See, those phone boxes weren't there when we walked past before. Its hard to explain. Some of the cars here aren't real, that's why there's so many of them. Etc....

Its a good job he's harmless.

30 October 1999

Ankara is a dreary swollen toxic place with too many cars, too many pedestrians and too little reason for any of them being here at all. Its one enormous financial district, all brash buildings grid patterns and banks; and cruelly for its incumbent citizens the kind of swank ordinarily appended to such areas is pokey and unconvincing even though there is clearly tanker loads of lucre swilling around.

It has a paucity of aesthetic views, which are instead modern and contrived, is fucking hilly in the wrong places (re aesthetics point), its parks are set at right angles to the far margins of the places that matter -as though the lungs were placed on the elbows and knees- making them hecticly polluted to reach and dourly functional to experience. Its cyber cafes, without exception in the centre where the smog is thickest and miles from the hill I'm sleeping on, are all almost twice as expensive as their counterparts in Istanbul and are bursting with the spoilt demon offspring of the Players and Shakers, living out the usual insipid West Coast fantasies. Its also cold.

Then again, I'm stuck here, and generally prone to ungenerous generalisations. Hope all are well.

27 October 1999

The visa situation is laughably bad. My conversation with the Iranian Consul ended with the phrase "I express my deepest regrets to you on this matter" and I think he meant it.

There is an inviolable process of application to be navigated. Monolithic and logically impenetrable and guaranteed to take weeks. Two at the very least, probably three.

My particulars, once collected and authorised at the embassy here, must go to Tehran where they will perform an extended tour of bureaucratic channels. My particulars must include a letter from the British Embassy not worth the paper its written on but valued by my protectors overseas at 35 quid. This sum accounts for typing my name onto a standard letter file, printing this file then delivering it to the reception booth. Even with all particulars delivered to the letter there is no guarantee that some trifle won't catch the fish eye of a bitter pedant and so result in a refusal which still commands the non-returnable application fee.

If I get the application in tomorrow I'll be here till mid November at least awaiting the results of the holy audit. The Iranian embassy in Budapest told me that Ankara would process in two days. The only way I'm going to get to India on time is by flying there and I can't afford to do that.

26 October 1999

I'm in Ankara trying to get my Iranian visa. Found the consulate today but it was closed.  Cycling in Turkish cities is fun. The traffic, particularly the buses and taxis, drive with evident indignation to find you on their road at all.

Aside from swerving towards you, cutting across your bows to turn right, waiting until the optimum moment to exit a side road you're about to flash past, pulling quickly away from a stationary position you've almost completed the passing of with some aplomb, almost; they also pump out noxious sooty clouds which billow down your throat in thick folds and blind you at traffic lights; which in themselves are treated more like loose guides to conduct; so much is this the case that those heeding this colour coded advice too literally get a tumultuous horning from the seething, fidgeting mob behind. That same mob treat it as customary to parp me too, of course, usually when close enough to see me jump in the saddle; as though they were sharing a sudden revelation: hah, I've got your game, you're a

.... cyclist, that’s what you are!

Thanks for letting me know.

Not to be outdone, pedestrians step out in front of you from all directions, look at you with disbelief, then step into the arc you've described to avoid them, necessitating a sharper turn into the traffic. Then there are the barrows and hand carts which give no quarter when moving towards you; and they're always going the wrong way in the sliver of road you're clinging to. And the cars get so close that yesterday I was hit sharply on the elbow by a wing mirror.

Soon as I get that visa, soon as I've found the bus station, its Iran.

22 October 1999

Where I'm staying in Istanbul isn't at all bad. For idle entertainment piped fresh into your room is a species of cockroach boasting dramatic size differentiations; some are Polynesians, some Pygmies; so far they've kept demurely to the province of the bin in the corner from where I can observe their group habits. The hot water in the communal shower works; when hot it appears as a thin trickle which crawls from the shower head with lethargic effort. Once, as though conscious of the cliché, it gave up the ghost just as I was soaping my hair. When not hot, which is almost without exception, it forgets its troubles to gush out exuberantly, throwing the hand held shower head around jerkily so that your clothes hanging by fractions from the one unbroken hook on the door receive a liberal smattering of large droplets.

At least there's adequate ventilation: courtesy of a window smashed sometime last decade doubtless by a victim of the heat rations. It helps the ice water clamming your gooseflesh to dry more quickly. But you're never far from an ashtray here. Even the one in the toilet, itself viciously neglected, is replaced with loving and attentive regularity. Which is as well because the gaggle of hoodlums and cutpurses thronging the foyer smoke without let up. It's possible to change money here too - the price offered for pounds on the international rate board, whose appearance would convince the casual observer it was consensual with every nuance and fluctuation in international exchange circles, is some 17% less than that ludicrously offered by some devil may care exchange bureaus. And when the tremor hit it was mainly the patrons of my hotel nervously littering the street, for some reason.

Only about three degrees more here than in London I think. Still, Asia's just a bridge away. Love Tim

21 October 1999

Trauma often has a damaging effect on the memory. Nevertheless I retain a good scale mental map of the pores on Mahamuds hooter.

And Mahamud is still making me feel lousy: I plucked two of the same from my intimate person this very day and suspect them to be a more specialised squad of insect commandos than my earlier phrase 'body lice' would suggest. On more than one occasion Mahamud mentioned 'call girls' with distant eyes. I fear my knowledge of veneria has been extended. Contracted without the consolation of connubials. Dear God, reveal to me my crime.

19 October 1999

Still in Istanbul. Don't know how long I'll be here. Have to pick up a package but I can't find the post office though I'm sitting right where I was told it would be (opposite Lycee Galatasary). Have to gather all my pennies and transmute them into cents for the assault on the far East: can't rightly expect cashpoints in areas that the local police skittishly avoid.

Have to acquire that latterday grail the Iranian visa, I think from Ankara. Have to arrange my personal affairs as one going to the scaffold given the obscurity of Iranian communications infrastructure.

17 October 1999

I'm in Istanbul. Was getting way too cold where I was. Still don't know how I'm going to make Bhopal on time.

After Europe, even after Romania, this place is rather  disorientating. I've come ill prepared too; no maps, no phrase book, no prior reading etc. There is full speed bustle here, many street vendors creating noise, smells, confusion and intoxication. There's a lot of mustaches. The Turkish physiognimy, aquiline, deep eyed and intense, is a little unsettling to my alien sensibilities. And Istanbul is very large - I haven't a clue which part of it I'm in. In all my bearings are shot.

Had more trouble leaving Romania, principally emotionally, finally because of infernal bureaucracy. They wanted me to pay a 100 dollar fine at the border for overstaying my official welcome, saying I had a transit visa only. Not so, I said, I paid far more for my entry. We reached an impasse after I demonstrated the impossibility of finding the sum. Rubbing the top of my head with worry and agitation seemed to work on the border guard so he fetched his superior, who sanctified my fortunate crossing with the requisite stamp whilst I tried not to look too grateful. They're shutting this place so more tomorrow. Hope all are exceptionally well, much love Tim.

13 October 1999

Still in Romania but barely. Arrived in Constanta - Ovid's place of exile circa 5 BC or so - on Monday afternoon after grinding out 410 kilometres in 74 hours of uncontinuous knee graft. The Black Sea is the first watery expanse I've seen since just outside Dieppe on July 2nd. On Tuesday my arse, without ambiguity, said NO MORE; so I caught up on my mail. Today I had to take full advantage of that endangered beast hot water and thoroughly wash the exhaust soot out of my entire wardrobe. Which took two hours though my collection is modest.

Made some more friends today. People here, on the whole, are fantastically wonderful: time and again I've been utterly humbled by their generosity and heart. To give examples: in Rupea, near Brasov, I was taken in by a grocer and her daughter. They showered me with gifts from their tiny shop, fed me and generally worked up a lot of concern.

The electrical genius Dragosi is the husband of the daughter. They also gave me money which I tried very hard to refuse. This after explaining that it was almost certain they would lose the store, their home, because the Father was dead; and the poor in Romania are relentlessly being shunted out of their old securities by the ruthless entrepeneurianism of the new. They also contacted relatives in Brasov to find me somewhere to stay. When I was indeed staying with these relatives, the next day, the two Mariahs called I think four or five times to make sure I was okay: they were worried because Romania is dangerous for foreigners.

Now I was put up for three nights by Bianca, Diana and their mother, fed without let up, shown the local sights (including a beautiful castle with a spurious claim on Mr Drahkool), taken to a family knees up in the mountains and again showered with goodwill and concern.

Two nights after leaving here I was given a roof for a night by a widow and her daughter in a small village when I was stranded there after dark by an untimely puncture. They fed me and would accept no payment, making pointed reference to an Orthodox portrait of Christ upon the wall.

Tonight I'm being taken to a disco by the daughter and friends of the family I'm staying with. This afternoon I had my hair cut for free whilst someone else lied that I had eyes like Brad Pitt. It will take a Ceasarian to get me out of here.

After all the warnings about Romania I reached my last stop Constanta - 60 kilometres from Bulgaria -  totally unscathed. I think the nationals of this country were anxious about having that reputation soiled because last night I had my pocket expertly picked. It was a feat of consummate artistry perpetrated on a sluggish, ingenuous foreigner and I must take off my hat to the two rogues who did it: that they only got 2 quid out of 14 I almost regret.

8th October 1999

I'm in fine fettle and still moving. Currently in sight of a 2.5 k high mountain that even now has ice at it's apex. Suffering a little from the overwhelming hospitality of the Romanian people - emotionally that is. I can't bear to leave them.

Had quite a notable few days: on Wednesday evening in the dark I experienced hurtling up a mountain slope intended for ski jumping inside a 1970's Ford Granada, a la Sweeney, driven by a man called Mihail

Great difficulties in getting contact but an electrical genius with a gammy ankle called Dragosi got some power into my phone via just a few wires. He's just one of the responsibilities picked up the last few days. I find I now have three surrogate mothers in Romania and two of them are called Mariah. Also it seems Ceaucescu would do quite well in the polls in the event of a resurrection.

28th September 1999

A young gipsy following me on a bike through a small village, employing the universal arm gesture to make himself understood, offered to cut my throat. Though the offer was charming a man with my obligations couldn't very well accept it.

25th September 1999

Just tried using the net in a tourist office, small town in South east
Hungary. Kept disconnecting. There was a plaque on the wall certifying that the information assistant held an 'OK' level in tourism. In a library now.

Had to stay in a pension last night cos the local camp site had closed two weeks early. Was led to the pension by an old geezer on an even older bicycle; livid pink, eyes on stalks, got his point across by shouting but cycled as though he were immortal. Had to get into lowest gear so as not to overtake him. The left side of his body pointed outwards, like he was attempting side saddle, consequently revealing a remarkable beige stain - upon indeterminate brown - which stretched from his pocket to his ankle. Even the scalp under his nicotine hair looked angry. Every revolution of his crank caused a screeching metallic protest whilst his rear wheel wobbled at me salaciously. A woman shaped like a wide ironing board in a floral pattern dress glided past. Our stately progress through the town caused quite a stir. Then he tapped me for a drink at our journey's end.

Romania by tomorrow, deffo.

24th September 1999

The last few weeks have been something of a rollercoaster, bringing an unevenness of fortune that would be hilarious if it wasn't so drastically inconvenient.

Sometime mid August in the South of the Czech Republic: darkness had set in and I still hadn't reached the nearest campsite on my map. No lights on the bike so I was getting a little worried.  Got to a petrol station and it turns out that I had passed the site a few miles back. A young woman there offered to show me the way on her bike. She didn't speak any English, which matched my Czech.

The road to the site didn't look promising: the sign was small, discreet even, and the road, broken up and rutted, disappeared narrowly uphill into a black wood. The universal camping symbol was absent. It was getting very cold and I was reliant upon getting a meal here: I believed there would be food because of a questionable symbol on my Czech camping map attributed to this site.

The road became little more than a track and seemed to go forever. Got to the 'campsite' which turned out to be anything but. There was no room for cars to get through the gate. I could make out a uniform series of small wooden chalets, positioned with a kind of Soviet functionalism; but there were no lights on. I couldn't see a reception area: a largish building, but no signs and no lights. There was a building giving off light, and the only discernible light, 100 yards away. But there was a full scale disco going on inside. I contemplated the wisdom of taking my bedraggled, dirty, cycle shorted self out of the simple darkness and into the unnatural glare, noise and pulsing life of this place.

Mercifully, I didn't have to. Two young people emerged and one of them spoke good English. No, this certainly wasn't a campsite, it was a private area. A summer camp for a large group of children. The nearest campsite was fifteen miles away. My stomach groaned at this news.
I asked if I could speak to any adults present. They were few in  number. After explaining my purpose, and the need to simply lie down in my tent, depositions were made on my behalf to successive hierarchical members.

Responsibility was passed to the top only to rebound and settle somewhere in the middle.  I could stay. I would be fed. I was to have my own bed, inside the main building. I was invited to the party the children were having.  You see, this wasn't an ordinary summer camp. The children and young adults here were rehearsing for a number of upcoming performances. They were a specialised troupe, part of a 65 year tradition, trained for broadcasting work and sponsored by Czech national radio. They would soon be traveling to the US to perform an opera based on the lives of the children of Terezin, a Jewish ghetto during the war which yielded almost no survivors. They had just performed at a castle 12 miles away. Two years ago they performed with Michael Jackson at a concert in Prague.

Half an hour after getting to the camp, I was addressing these 60 people over a microphone. The next morning we recorded a discussion for Czech radio. That day Czech television were coming to the nearby castle to record the children’s' performance, and Vaclav, the coordinator of the camp, arranged for me to be interviewed there. Later in the afternoon I was filmed leaving the camp. The British Council had advised me that such publicity would be impossible to arrange.
As the recording was for a popular children’s television show it was not very in depth; but it was something. In four hours, later the same day, I traveled over 50 kilometers to the nearest camp site on my route. Though I arrived at dusk there was a little more light remaining than the previous evening. The camp site was at Z'dar, next to a lake, and was not completely fenced in so I pitched my tent close to a couple of caravans, partly hidden from sight by a number of trees. I had to find food again. Just before leaving for a building a few hundred yards away, a police car drove through the site and passed within 15 feet of where I was pitched.

By now it was almost completely dark and my tent, being dark itself, was all but invisible from a small distance. I went out and came back 30 minutes later, to find, upon unzipping the tent, that three of my five bags had disappeared...

My first impressions were absurdist. So used to seeing the bags in their accustomed places, I felt sure I was deceived by some obscure conjuring trick; and that any moment they would materialise again in an unforeseen place. I think I gave it a few seconds before looking again. My mind whirled vacantly, but my mouth started mumbling 'its over'; and when my ears registered this opinion and I had a horrible, onrushing, dizzying sense of what it meant... that no benefit would come from an abandoned set of promises; that the words given in connection to this campaign were now, all of them, simply another display of empty bluster.

The successes of earlier in the day only added to the oppressive hollowness that followed. I got furious, cursed and screamed at the silent trees and the pitch dark, then swung the disgust round upon myself, my carelessness and complacency.

All of my clothes had gone, bar a jacket and the things I was wearing; all of the spares for the bike, all the tools; the cooker and cooking equipment, waterproofs, a special water purifier, my bike helmet, the means for charging my phone and many miscellaneous small but useful items. And of course the three panniers. In all the estimate comes to around 1025 pounds worth of things.

The luck so far, I say again, has been uneven. I still had all my papers, medical supplies, sleeping bag, camera and phone, maps. The first people I found to tell it all to - Jitka and Peter - spoke good English, called the police, fed me, consoled me, helped with other practicalities and generally coaxed me out of a very gloomy orientation of mind. Jitka then gave the entire morning of the next day to translating for me at the police station.
Immediate problems were manifold. I couldn't move anywhere on the bike because, with the two bags left, it would be grossly unbalanced. Besides, I had no change of clothes and no way of cooking for myself, or of repairing the bike if anything went wrong. No one could contact me now. My finances could not properly cope with outlaying money to replace needed items. I couldn't see a way forward. I would have been in an impossible situation were it not for the incredible support I am getting from other quarters.

Two days after the theft Geoff Husband of Breton Bikes, the guardian angel of this campaign, put three replacement panniers in the post to Z'dar, plus a few bike spares, refusing once again to take payment for them (he had already donated the tent, spares package and waterproofs, secured the sleeping bag and original panniers for free and gotten me the bike for less than trade price, not to mention much invaluable advice and other practical assistance). With these bags I would be able to start the process of replacing the most vital things.

I tried to get some publicity about the theft whilst waiting in Z'dar, hoping that it might lead to the return of some items. I made the newspaper and local radio, and a week after the bags went I was interviewed again by Ceska television, this time for the national news. There was much film of me cycling forlornly past the lake where the robbery occurred, trying to keep the bike in balance.

The day after the broadcast, one of the locals responded cynically by stealing the mileometer from the bike, the only thing I'd left on it; it could be of no use to a thief without other attachments. So the record of over 2000 kilometers pedaling was lost too. Meantime nothing came back from the media exposure. I was desperate to leave Z'dar, there was a nip in the air and leaves were starting to pile up in the streets; but unfortunately the panniers took over a week to arrive. Thus an overnight stop became eleven frustrating days. I then set off at speed for Budapest, where I reasoned I would be able to get things more cheaply.

The reality has been a little different, moreover due to some very bad luck it took nearly two weeks to get hold of the things I needed. So the theft has cost around four weeks of the little time I have, and created other far reaching complications; as while I wait for the insurance claim to be processed, my finances are precarious indeed.
Nevertheless, I'm carrying on: definitely not due to any special courage, or, on the other hand, an acute fear of failure. Rather it's because of the responsibility I hold to fulfil the promises I've made; this responsibility is not felt as a regrettable burden, nor is it a by-product of an unforgiving conscience. Familiarisation with the details of the Bhopal disaster has developed in me a clarity of purpose, the consequence of various insights which may seem upon hearing them somewhat hackneyed.

It is near impossible to imagine the brutal ravages of disaster from the perspective of a relatively and habitually secure life; but it's absurd to imagine that any Bhopali ever felt differently before 2nd December 1984.  Understanding this has helped to lead me past the personless label of 'victim', past the dim human shapes transfigured in our perceptions by an arbitrary horror, and into the recognition of familiar human faces amongst the nameless affected of Bhopal. Of course, the Bhopal disaster may seem arbitrary only as a thing experienced, in the abstract as it were; its occurrence actually being the net result of concrete managerial, economic and political decisions, taken by individuals operating consciously and with some knowledge of the possible repercussions. But the logic informing those decisions is universal: it is the degree to which it is able to be applied which differs, nation to nation. In this sense the need to challenge this logic is universal; and it's with this understanding that my own responsibility to act has become undeniable and irrevocable. And, as a consequence, I'm not prepared to be the cause of further disappointment or discouragement to those involved in the Bhopal survivors' struggle.

Tomorrow I will reach Romania, very much behind schedule, but in just over a week I plan to be in Turkey: and then I only have three countries to go...

Many thanks for reading all of this.

P.S. I'm aware that the emphasis in these reports has tended towards the description of hardship. Naturally, hardship has been offset by many instances of genuine encouragement and inspiration. One example happened a couple of days ago. I was on a camp site south of Budapest, it was a cold, blustery night and I was the only tent dweller around (now a common scenario). I was taken from my tent at the insistence of two Romanians, itinerant workers laboring in Hungary illegally in order to support their families. They took me into their bungalow, made me eat with them, offered me advice and contact addresses for Romania and generally pampered me. I was the first Englishman they'd ever spoken to. The next day they insisted that I finish off their food, "you need it for the bike", and then Vasile demanded that I send him a postcard when I arrived in India; not so that he would have something 'exotic' to show friends and family, "so that I can sleep well at night knowing you are safe". These men, both having wives and children, earned about five pounds a day for twelve hour shifts, seven days a week, and would not hear of me eating my own food while I was with them, given what I was trying to do. In themselves they are a strong enough reason for me to finish this trek.

31st August 1999

My interview went out nationally: had a mail from someone in Prague who said that all her work mates saw it. Would have seen it myself but the TV lost its signal at the crucial time and I could not convince the Czech speaking receptionist that it was easily fixable (just give me the controls). Tomorrow I'm headline news (I swear) in the Moravian weekly Vysocina.

Some problems could be coming to a close. The woman I met in Prague who is flying to Budapest tomorrow and is trying to get me some things in London today to bring with her. She's limited by finance but she should be able to get most things I desperately need; i.e. Marks and Spencer underwear.

27th August 1999

I'll be carrying rear bags on the front wheels as it was all Geoff had. My fortune may change yet though. Had a call from a media man called Andre today. On Monday, seven days after my triumphant debut, I shall reappear on Czech TV screens, this time I believe on the evening news. Which is a desperate state for them to be in when you think of it. Still, it pleased the proprietress of the hotel I'm in.

Lost my favourite item of clothing in the robbery, a green towelyn top which, when I found it three years ago, had not yet left the polythene bag it had been sealed in in 1974.

26th August 1999

Better news. Saint Geoff of Brittany is today posting another set of panniers to my hotel. When they arrive I can move (probably early next week). Ian is supposed to be getting me a new charger today and posting that too.

Today I find that I really have no money left. I'm living on the credit, the fastrack to irrecoverable impecunity.

There never was going to be an easy way.

25 August 1999

This is the worst Internet cafe in Christendom. Came here at 5.00, told to come back at 7.00. Taken me 25 mins. to get into my mailbox. And it has a Czech keyboard so that everytime I type a y, I get a z. It happens in this waz. From now on I'm going to stop correcting them.

Got a mail from Ian which I've not looked at zet. Hopefullz news on bags and spares. I can't buz anzthing till I get some bags. The bags I had were verz verz good, made bz stolid dependable Zorkshiremen. Need the same to get me to India.

Police here have been verz good, if utterlz impotent. Waited four hours in mz hotel todaz for radio to turn up. Local journalist arranged it, and got a promise thez'd put an item on air this afternoon. Thez never showed. Have to trz again tomorrow. If I can just get the bags back I'd be a happz man. Thez are too distinctive for anzone here to use, also thez need special fittings.

Man who got me on T.V. two dazs ago works for national radio and is best mates with Vaclav Havel's advisor but I've lost his e-mail address. Mz luck has done a volte face.

I can get mail while I wait in this godforsaken place for the keystone cops to make no effort finding the culprit. Trying to get on local radio, maybe T.V. also. Journalist on local paper is to be my go-between.

Phone is now out of power - charger was stolen, and so cannot recharge.

Feeling pretty lonely right now. This is becoming a rollercoaster.

24 August 1999

I've never been in more need. Last night, whilst staying in a camp site near Zdar (80 kilometres North West of Brno) three of my five bags were stolen from my tent. All of my clothes went, all the spares for the bike, tools, cooker, pans, water purifier, charger for my phone...

Obviously, I am devastated. I cannot see a way out of the problems this has caused. Around 50 000 (1000 pounds) crowns of gear was stolen, much of it specialised.

They took it all without my knowing because I wasn't there. I was on a campsite but it wasn't all fenced in. I pitched next to some caravans at dusk: I assumed they were occupied. One minute before I walked 200 yards in search of food a police car drove right past my tent. This gave me the illusion of security. It was also virtually pitch black by now and my tent was hardly visible. I was gone for around 30 minutes. My bike was locked to the tent. As I was leaving my tent I heard a car coming back behind me and assumed it was the police car returning. I reckon the thieves must have watched me come and go, even though it was dark, which makes me think it was an insider job - maybe friends of someone working at the site or something. Or it was just a lucky opportunist who made regular patrols.

If I hadn't been so tired (over 200 kilometres in 48 hours) I would have made do with the food I had. As it was, the restaurant wouldn't serve me so I came back to cook something after a quick drink. They'd taken my cooker and all the food I had.

The local police have interviewed me but they can do little. I went to the local newspaper who will probably run an appeal, but not until next week (they are a weekly). The journalist is to try and get something onto local radio, maybe even television because, ironically, yesterday morning I was filmed by Czech television for a Sunday morning childrens show. I would like to get news to the producers but have no number for them.

The problem is that I can't cycle anywhere at the moment. I have two bags left: one for the handlebars, one large one for the right rear. This will overbalance the bike too much. I'm really at a loss as to what I can do.

I feel I'm betraying all the promises I've made to people in Bhopal. Two years of planning and effort have been undone in two minutes. This was always going to be a possibility but it doesn't make it easier to bear.

Found a small, bare, bizarre internet facility, which is also very slow but it works. Have e-mailed Martin from Ceska so hope to hear something soon. It struck me to mail the people I was with yesterday: the leader of the camp works on Czech radio and is best mates with Vaclav Havel's advisor: in fact he and some of the kids were being filmed with the Czech figurehead today - but I appear to have lost his e-mail address. Its a platitude but fortune is truly fickle.

Also found a hotel at 8 quid a night with staff who speak a little mother tongue but haven't booked in yet. Will do so in next hour. Name is Hotel Talsky Mlyn.

21st August 1999

I've got to go. Paid up at the camp site, packed up, and need to reach Kutna Hora by nightfall.

8th August 1999

Dear friends

This is an update on the progress of the Brighton - Bhopal bike trek, which set off on July 1st. Early days yet: I've only reached Prague in the Czech Republic, though I'm on course to get to Bhopal by December and the 15th anniversary.

Its not been all that easy so far. I'm not commonly a cyclist and have little touring experience. Each problem I've encountered has been new to me.  The bike has suffered a bit from the weight it is having to bear because I'm carrying everything I need for the six months; this includes clothing for all weather and climates, medical equipment, a spares package for all mechanical problems (chains, hub, derailleurs, tyres, bearings, cables, tools etc.), cooking gear, a water purifier, 3 water bottles, mosquito net, tent, sleeping mat and bag, camera, campaign material, books, food, detailed maps, miscellaneous items and five bags to fit everything in.

On the whole its been pretty solitary. Low points include a thorough drenching near the Somme in Normandy which saturated all clothing and sleeping gear. It was the final two hours of a hard day's pedalling, I could find no food, and as I was shivering to sleep a large frog plopped onto my sleeping bag. I decided it was probably inedible. Also, one long, steep, 3 hour climb in central Germany under a fierce sun: at no point could I gain enough speed to throw off the tenacious attacks of many thirsty horseflies.

In fact, with all the baggage on the bike, most hill climbs have been very hard: several of them have forced an on the spot reappraisal of what on earth I think I'm doing.

It's brought me to a few conclusions, none entirely brand new but all hard won. In itself the trek means very little: my route has been ridden often, notably by lone women and usually upon inferior cycles. And while it is inappropriate to make any comparison, to put this effort in its proper context I only have to think of the gas affected Bhopali women and children who have more than once marched 500 miles to Delhi, in spite of their many debilitating ailments, and who've  faced governmental apathy and frequently state sponsored brutality in response to their requests for justice, adequate compensation, proper medical care and social and environmental rehabilitation.

Therefore, the value of this trek is necessarily, on the one hand, symbolic: it can help to represent, I hope, the efforts of the individuals and groups outside of India - particularly in the U.S., Britain and Japan - who continue to work upon the legal, medical and environmental repercussions of the Bhopal disaster. Survivors must be clearly reminded that they do not stand alone in this longest fight.

On the other hand, this trek has a practical aim, the success of which is sorely dependent on its ability to inspire others to also act. The journey has given ne two exceptional meetings so far: one, my first day in France, with a woman of Polynesian origin. Her family came from an island in the Pacific which has been badly affected by French nuclear tests, leaving a legacy of radiation induced illnesses beyond the capabilities of the local medical services. Few know about this predicament because the island is small, the people poor and the usual channels indifferent. The second took place in the Museum of the Great War in Albert, near the Somme. The father of the man I met had died due to a gas attack suffered in the trenches: he'd failed to reach his mask in time. But he didn't die until 1926, ten years after exposure.

Both these meetings reinforce the conviction that the ongoing quality of medical care in cases of toxic exposure is utterly vital. Therefore - and not simply in the medical sense - anyone casually thinking of Bhopal as history is grossly mistaken.

It is our responsibility to incite responsibility. What happens right now is profoundly important. With little effort a great deal of difference can be made to the lives of gas affected Bhopalis still living through the disaster.  The Sambhavna Clinic, operating in the worst affected communities, is the only medical facility in Bhopal properly implementing the recommendations made by the International Medical Commission in 1994 - yet its future is uncertain because it is reliant upon individual donations.

Which brings me back to the value of this trek. It can only be measured, finally, in terms of how much money is brought to Sambhavna, and so far it is no way near enough; but dreaming of the survival of this Clinic is exactly what's keeping me going up these steep, meandering hills.

Sponsor forms can be printed off this Lifecycle website; alternatively batches can be sent by contacting the home address given on the site. Please use the forms - and pass them on if you are able to.

If anybody would like to write with questions (or support), the most direct way is through the following e-mail address timedwards@hotmail.com.

Many thanks for reading this.

UPDATE:

The situation in Iran of late is worrying. The political climate appears pretty incendiary and I just heard about the four Westerners kidnapped in the South East, a region I have to cycle through. I have absolutely no intention to alter my plans yet, however.

6th August 1999

Met a man from Columbia today who gave me a contact on the Prague Post. Got to visit the British Council now.

5th August 1999

Got stuck in Weimar for a while because of a medical mix up too dull to go into. Visited Buchenwald twice to take it all in. Climbed a couple of mountains and survived to exaggerate the tale. Now coming to ya straight outta Prague. It's kind of groovy here and its affecting my argot.

Saw some graffitti in a Czech campsite: "I live for the Internet". I want this cultural molestation stopped NOW.

Slept with a man last week for five Marks. Put the chequebook away, it was to save the money and my chastity was unthreatened. Thought I was saving much more, then he snored all night. Still, nice bloke.

Phone almost sorted. Sim card has finally arrived, getting posted to Prague.

2nd July 1999

Very rapid note - I got the last 9000i in old London town: £50 from Harrods.

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