Bank Manager

I am back from the Glacier, bearded, dishevelled and hungry, sat in a restaurant in Almora demolishing a pile of chapattis as the staff look on inquisitively.
A week ago I was lined up outside an A.T.M machine in Bageshwar impatient to depart. That morning's attempt to obtain an Allen key had already set me behind. The small boy at the hardware shop could not understand my request so I asked to see the shops manager, “bank manager?’ asked the boy helpfully. I departed.
A massive crowd had now formed at the A.T.M machine with new A.T.M cards in fancy plastic sheaves in abundance proudly being examined and waved. It appeared that the cards had been issued that morning and all were eager to test them out. Women, as is the way here, formed a separate queue and the men fast tracked them into the front where all seemed equally clueless on how to use the machine. The booth became increasingly crowded with women and helpful men stood around the screen all keen to see how the machine worked. Buttons were pressed, sometimes the right ones, and every 5 minutes or so money was dispensed and yet more women lined up to get to the front. More men came from the street to help things along and even more thronged the periphery to catch a glimpse of the action. I abandoned and decided to budget tightly for the next week or so.
The ride to Loharkhat was pleasant a gentle ride along the river for 40km before the trail climbed in earnest on a steep jeep track to first of the trekking huts. I had carried far too much gear with plastic bags of clothes lashed to the outside of my camel back along with a pair of running shoes giving me the look of a cycling bag man.
I spent the night at the trekking hut in the kitchen shack with a fellow Indian trekker cum journalist who was trekking to one of the most remote polling stations in the country; near the Sunderjunga glacier; in anticipation of the forthcoming general election. The locals smoked hashish and babbled on into the cold night air with many offensive remarks made about the Israeli and Bengali trekkers who would come later on in the season. I objected, I have a soft spot for the little Bengalis.
The next day was a big climb out, 3 hours and a near 1000 m height gain, sections were rideable but on the whole it was one long carry as I ambled up alongside Himar the journalist and his genial guide who appeared keen to lay his hands on the bike and bags and carry them up himself. On the descent the guide got his wish and a I handed him the plastic bag full of clothes to drop off at the next village he appeared a bit surprised with my tactics wondering alloud why I had carried them all the way up.
One 8 km descent followed rockier than I remember and a more unrelenting. Made good time on a traverse to the village of Khatti and was spotted by the swirl of tiny arms and legs that were the village kids who mobbed me and the cycle on arrival. Met up with Himar and the guide and a extremely pleasant German man, and a not so pleasant Austrian man who looked miffed at the attention the cycling had created. "So you’re the crazy man who carries his cycle uh?" Examining the bike he examined it carefully “very basic, you like riding that for me nothing’. Furious. But revenge was to come soon.