Hard pressed for time and in possession of a decaying GPX750R, I eventually decided upon Ghana. The intention was to take the bike on a one way journey and sell the contraption to a rich African. However, the foreign office had warned us of the various perils and the Algerians were not going to allow us to pass without hindrance through their country. Plan two was nip down to Greece, travel south and hopefully get to Kenya in the three weeks we had left. However, the Ethiopian authorities would only allow us into the country but not out the other side!
Travelling through Europe would have been as stimulating as a game of tiddlywinks, therefore the only alternative at the time was a flight to India. Aeroflot provided the usual inboard entertainment, and within eight hours we had landed on the other side of the continent. It was pure chance that we bumped into Cavita and Khushwant, two locals who spent the next week helping us to buy the pride of India - an Enfield 350 Bullet. It was from this point that our journey began.
Most of the day was spent at the magistrate’s court, trying to obtain a registration document and once finally acquired the events for the next 48 hours became a little blurred as sleep was not on the agenda. We were to accompany a BSA 350 Goldstar on the perilous journey to Leh, some 500km into the Himalayan mountains. The BSA’s pilot, whose name escapes me but at the time we called Tricky Dicky, had arranged an interview with the press, a camera crew and one of India’s more renowned cricketers.
Eventually, following countless trips to relations’ houses to say farewells we set off. On paper India has a similar traffic practice to ours they drive on the left. However, in reality if a vehicle bigger than the one you're driving decides it wants to drive on your side of the road, while at the same time it’s being overtaken by an equally large vehicle, then you have no rights whatsoever, as we found out on a number of occasions.
Such lunacy was not aided by my suicidal attempts to overtake a moving lorry on the wrong side of the road when travelling around a corner. Our trip was once again delayed while a new brake lever was fitted (fear had made me apply so much muscle to aid the pathetic retardation that it'd snapped).
We finally managed to leave at 10 o'clock. Travelling at night through cities is the best way to approach India. During the day it’s likely one will have an accident due to the large number of vehicles on the road. The squalid appearance of the cities together with the heat and congestion does not equate to fun riding.
By seven o'clock the following day we had found out why we were advised to take three spare alternators. And that six volt systems should be confined to use in torches only. The Enfield had averaged a speed of about 30km/h, two up over fairly good road surfaces. Worse progress than we had imagined, not helped any by ending up 8000 feet above sea level.
The front brake was utterly appalling but a necessity while meandering through Himalayan precipices. The rear brake sufficed as long as speeds were not in excess of 50km/h. The bike had a top speed of 85km/h two up with 40kg of baggage, and about 90km/h solo. I was, however, informed that Bullets had been known to travel at speeds in excess of 100km/h. Why anyone would attempt such speeds (60mph) on Indian roads I don't know.
The most appealing point about the 1957 replica was its sturdiness. One could simply point the bike in one direction and it would not budge an inch, regardless of the terrain encountered. Rarely would it deviate from its desired direction except when banked over in Elsie fashion on sand (which inspired me to take up tap dancing) or when ridden into the side of a wildebeest. Then and only then did the bike pretend it was a contortionist as it wrapped itself around the unfortunate creature.
The pillion, experienced in the ways of surfing, held on as if I was a board until we both came to a bloody rest on the side of the road. He, unscathed, was caught in a crossfire of abuse as the indigenous workers screamed insults at us with reference to their sacred cow. Little time was lost gathering our wits and moving on. A hospital was found and excessive amounts of iodine rubbed into the offending wounds while needle happy doctors tried to inject me with a various assortment of viscous substances, to little avail.
The BSA had been bodged by an ape with a 15lb sledge-hammer. The engine was rebuilt so many times it was surprising there was anything left of it. Due to overheating we had left the BSA somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas on the road to Manali. From there on the road surfaces became very bad until boulders became par for the course. August was the end of the monsoon season and on a number of occasions we were forced to ride through floods up to a foot deep.
We met a couple of Japanese bikers who had been on the road for the past 14 months, who informed us that further north near Dras, supposedly the second coldest inhabited place in the world, floods had blocked off the roads and made them impassable. Shortly after the monsoons the weather draws in and the roads are closed for nine months of the year, so it’s imperative to make a move when you can.
At Manali we met up with Happy and Tricky Dicky, and told that we were going to be joined by the latter's brother in a day or two. Due to time constraints we moved on without them, having first been warned of the Manali pass which was some 5000 feet above us. A distance we would have to cover before nightfall due to treacherous conditions. Equipped with an old tarpaulin for a coat we set off from Manali to find several hours later that the conditions were impossible.
To our left was a sixty foot glacier clinging to the rock face while trucks thundered by and the elements threw everything they had to throw at us. To our right were three small workmen's tents which we gladly invited ourselves into as an alternative to freezing to death:The following day, before setting off, the pillion upon getting up put his head through the tent’s roof, pulling boulders down on the unsuspecting workers. A hasty retreat was made to the bike, having first made a donation to the shoes of the workers.
Cresting the pass revealed a whole new world. It was similar to a cold desert, bare rock and very little vegetation. The only people who inhabited this land were the hoteliers for the precious three months of trade they hoped to receive from passing tourists, and the road gang — men black from head to foot with tar who paved the roads all day.
The road surfaces improved but reaching height 5065m at Langlacha, on the road to Sarchu, carburation problems meant we had to alter the mixture to compensate for the altitude. My passenger didn't adapt so easily, had to make numerous pit stops to relieve himself of chronic altitude sickness. Moving off we heard gunshots. Guerillas were known to operate in the area as politicians fought for popularity, killing men like chess pawns.
The road improved further, particularly a 65km stretch along a plateau towards Leh. The scenery changed to a warm desert! About 50km from Leh it became apparent that the people were more Westernized. 3km from our destination we ran out of petrol. We were ignored by a Jeep but bought some fuel from a young Tibetan at Western prices. Leh was not what we'd hoped. Full of ex-public school drop-outs crazed on strange intoxicating substances and yeast based beer. We felt saddened that the result of our travels was to find foreigners being taken advantage of by the indigenous population, The views, however, were breathtaking and there were a handful of traditional natives.
From Leh we’d planned to take the road further north across rocky passes to Dras and then continue anti-clockwise until we were once again back in Chandigargh, our point of rendezvous. Unfortunately, several days beforehand a group of Indians had been ambushed and slaughtered by bandits on the same road; we were advised not to take that treacherous path. Snapshots, souvenirs and petrol were the order of the day before we made our rather disheartened way back the same route we had taken.
On the way back we bumped into Tricky Dicky and a very annoyed Happy who'd been made to sit around in Manali for several days waiting for a brother who did not turn up. Further on the alternator blew. Having lost some of our tools while meandering through precipices we were unable to rectify the problem and free-wheeled the Enfield to an army camp, who were only too willing to rewire the bike and question us concerning the delights of women; a novelty in India.
A roadside cafe was later welcomed with glee until we were surrounded by local men who themselves were yet to understand the primary role of the opposite sex. A hasty retreat was made and our journey continued. Just before the pass into Manali, where we had camped once before, the chain broke. The only advice | can offer to anyone wanting to do this trip on an Enfield is take spares for everything! We'd bought the bike virtually new but were advised to fit more durable pattern parts in the engine.
A truck was flagged down, and for the sum of £4 (less than the petrol would’ve cost) we were driven back to Manali. It may, however, have been more dangerous! On average we saw three crashed buses or trucks every day and motorcycle accidents were as common as rain in the monsoons. Hitch-hiking is virtually impossible and cycling would be ludicrous, although we met one old sea-dog weaving his way down the Himalayas. Trains were remarkably cheap and an experience as vendors try to sell you everything under the sun, though fourth class has been abolished and you're no longer allowed to sit on the roof!
The best method of transport, therefore, despite the huge number of accidents, is definitely the motorcycle. The Bullet comes in several different styles and two engine sizes - 350 and 500cc. For those travelling two-up I would recommend the 500, although the 350 will suffice. The suspension has a habit of bottoming out over bumpy terrain and the exhaust is ridiculously easy to touch down. The seat must be replaced in fear of losing your sex life, a concrete slab would probably be an improvement. Engine bars are useful for when the bike is dropped. In Chandigargh, north of Delhi, a shop called the Agency will rebuild a Bullet for the sum of £5 (a days labour and parts) to cope with Himalayan trail riding—so we found out on our return.
In Chandigargh we had to wait for Happy to return, who'd taken possession of our insurance documents. It had been reported once that an American on questioning had been found not to be carrying his insurance documents and had driven away shouting insults. He was shot by the police. Happy returned with the documents and we continued south west to Jaipur. A very picturesque town full of forts and queers. The following day we continued east into desert land.
In the Rhajistan desert we hit another wild animal! Most of the day became a blur and my last request was not to receive an injection from an Indian medic, the results of which would probably have been more fatal than the crash. Waking up the following morning proved to be one of the more painful days in my life, having to surgically remove the pillowcase which had congealed into the wound on the side of my face.
Such pain, however, could only have been minimal compared to that of a pedestrian found on the side of the road later that morning. There was a pool of blood a metre in circumference around his head. The police would not stop to help and some passer-by informed us that if we didn’t move on fast we would probably be blamed for his state!
Fatigued and scarred, we continued north to Chandigargh again and finally back to Delhi. The bike and a large first class stamp were left with Cavita and Khushwant to be placed on a boat and posted back to England so that the pleasures of two wheel freedom on an Enfield Bullet (not that any spring to mind, but it had somehow got to me) could recommence back in Blighty.
Harry Busby