Travel Tales: Indian Hassles

My intention had always been to spend a maximum of a month and half in India before following in the footsteps of countless other Asia travelers and flying to Australia to work for a year serving Fosters in some bar in Perth. A month into my stay I was just beginning to dream of aborigines and the Great Barrier reef when I was persuaded to part with the money I had saved for my airfare from Delhi to Perth and spend it instead on a shining red Indian Enfield.

I'm still not sure whether to blame this foolish move on my house boat owner in Kashmir who spent a whole afternoon telling me how much profit I could make buying a bike in the north of India and selling it in the south, or to blame it on a certain sweet tasting narcotic which is outrageously cheap out there and which may have temporarily deranged my mind. Either way, I figured that there could be no harm in spending a day test riding Enfields before traveling by coach to Delhi and flying out.

If you thought that buying a used bike in Britain is an agonizing and risky business then you have obviously never tried buying one in India where the mere sight of a European makes any dealer thank Allah for his good fortune and dollar signs flash in his greedy eyes. The first thing one needs is a go-between who will negotiate a deal between buyer and seller. My house boat owner, Abdul, had a mechanic friend who agreed to perform this role in exchanged for the inevitable baksheesh.

The first bike that we looked at was a wreck by anyone's standards. The tyres had long since lost any sign of tread and they derived their traction only by the various pieces of gravel and other debris embedded in the rubber. The front forks seemed rusted solid and the front wheel wobbled dangerously at low speeds. It took an Olympic effort to operate the kick start and only pressure applied at exactly the right point in the kick would startle the engine into life.

I was told that it was a '68 model which I thought was probably an overestimate. One saving grace about Enfields - especially Enfields in India - is their durability and the ludicrous low price of spare parts. Models from the '50s are a common sight. Repair costs are also very low - a full service costs about £1.50 as a mechanic only earns £2 a day.

They're past masters at improvisation using pieces of scrap metal to fashion their own makeshift parts. Even original parts cost next to nothing - I bought a new pair of clutch plates for £1.80 - a far cry from parts for my BMW at home.

All of which was patiently explained to me by Abdul who argued that this total wreck of a bike could be turned into a mean machine given a few days work and a little money. He asked how much I was prepared to pay. The truth was that I would have to be paid to take the heap away, but in a moment of generosity offered £100. Abdul stared in astonishment: the owner was asking four times that amount. It was my turn to stare in astonishment.

The next bike we looked at was in much better condition. It was a shining red 1980 model. Ten years may seem old by Jap standards but by Indian standards it is practically brand new. Maybe it was the contrast with the previous bike or maybe it was my foolish habit of falling in love with practically any bike that I ride, especially one with a chunky classic feel and a loud chugging engine, but I immediately accepted the asking price of £480.

The only visible fault besides a few chips off the paint was that there was oil coming out of the cylinder head. I was told that this was due to a faulty gasket which would cost very little to repair. In actual fact the leak only decreased marginally when I had replaced the gasket and it became obvious that the major source of the leak was through a badly fitting bush which had been fitted when a previous owner had over-tightened the plug thread. This is an amazingly easy thing to do since the plug needs to be cleaned about once a day, especially on a bike where oil is coming up past the top of the piston and coating it.

The process of actually buying a motorcycle in India is by far the easiest part of the operation. I was to spend the next week and a half traipsing from one corrupt official to the next, trying to re-register the bike and obtain a No Objections Certificate (necessary if one wants to sell the bike outside the state in which the bike is bought). It's issued by the police department and proves that the bike has not been involved in an accident or stolen. It has become essential because there have been numerous cases of Sikh terrorists using stolen vehicles in attacks. Amazingly, however, this form is only valid in one named state and I was caught out by this absurdity, found myself unable to sell the bike in Delhi because I had named Goda.

Worse still, when after a mere 3 weeks of fairly trouble free riding, I became aware that my 1980 bike was in fact a 1980 frame with a '68 engine. As if this were not bad enough, the registration documents bore little relation to the bike that I was riding. Short of traveling the 800 miles back again from Delhi to Kashmir, and enduring another ten days of tedium and frustration in the offices of bureaucrats, there was absolutely nothing that I could do.

Eventually, just as I was about to fly home to England, having no money left for the airfare to Australia, I found some Danish tourists who were willing to give me $200 for the bike, a quarter of the price that I had paid for it just three weeks before. I was overjoyed at seeing the back of a bike which had been 90% hassle and 10% joy. Biking in India is to be recommended only if you travel long enough to offset the 10 days of irritating tedium at either end when one buys and sells.

To be sure, there is no better way to experience the country at its aggravating worst or magical best. If I ever am foolish enough to repeat the experience - and I am - I can only hope that I experience less aggravation and much more magic. If you are planning a trip don't let me put you off, I can only wish you luck - you'll need it!

William Verity