Our plans, made in Britain, had
been simple enough. Arrive in Delhi then buy a bike and see some
of India. Naturally, the bike would have to be an Enfield but
which to go for? A Royal Enfield made in England, but probably
a bit long in the tooth, or a Madras built Enfield. It had seemed
so easy all those miles away to talk of this, I'd had many bikes
and was not totally mechanically inept, whilst my friend had a
vast experience of India if little of bikes. I would meet him
in India, we would buy a bike, I'd teach him to ride and we'd
tour for my eight week stay and on leaving he'd buy out my half
of the bike.
On arrival in India reality hit
me hard. The total head-on intensity of walking down an Asian
street, with cows, rickshaws, bicycles, people, elephants, etc,
coming from all directions was hard to take. The idea of riding
a motorcycle here was preposterous. However, pushed on by my friend
who was used to all the chaos, I agreed to start looking the next
day.
A brief auto-rickshaw ride took
us to the local motorcycle market. An area of many streets engaged
in the art of the motorcycle. Boys as young as eight or nine could
be seen intently banging away at various two-wheeled machinery
in the gutter or the narrow shops. The bikes were Bajai and Piaggio
scooters, Raajdot and Yezdi, Hero Honda, Enfield and Royal Enfield.
Where to start? Armed with a little knowledge from reading up
on Enfields we entered the arena. It'd been decided to buy from
a Sikh as they are renown for pride in their workmanship.
After much searching and tyre
kicking we ended up in the emporium of Laxi Motors. We'd been
on a few three-up test rides but one particular bike had caught
our eye, amongst the junk and run down, recycled heaps was an
immaculate 1985, bright red 350 Enfield Bullet.
The bike had massive engine bars,
like a cow-catcher on a train in the cowboy movies. There were
brand new racks on the back. Noticing our interest the turbaned
dealer slyly started to polish away at non-existent spots of dirt.
An ex-police bike that'd been reconditioned. The owner produced
many papers to convince us that he often dealt with tourists.
After much haggling and drinking of chai a deal was struck, 850
US dollars to include a toolkit, insurance, racks, owner's manual
and all the other necessary paperwork. A licence number was painted
on by hand. We signed many papers before hitting the road.
I can honestly say that my first
few times riding through Delhi streets had me petrified. If all
the aforementioned road traffic wasn't bad enough, there were
open gullies springing up from nowhere, manic lorry drivers, the
gearchange and brake were the wrong way around and I had a totally
inexperienced pillion. Oh, and the drum brakes were appalling.
I must admit I was starting to have my doubts.
From Delhi we travelled to Agra,
Lucknow (where we stayed with several westerners mounted on Royal
Enfields) and on to Varanasi. Most of this travelling was done
on National Highway 2. The likes of these drivers I had never
experienced in my life. The road was a strip of tarmac that varied
from fair to diabolical. Either side of the road was an earth
track. It wasn't long before I discovered what this was for.
When a lorry, bus or private car
(usually an Ambassador) overtook they would, almost without fail,
run us off the road into the dust verge. We were literally run
off the road once every half hour. Often I would round a bend
to see a bicycle being overtaken by a bus being overtaken by a
lorry and sometimes even a car as well. It took a while, but in
the end, I learned to hold my ground for as long as possible.
On many straight and half reasonable
stretches of road there would often be overturned lorries and
coaches. Both of these were always dangerously overloaded and
would lean precariously round corners. Another quaint little Indian
road quirk was that when overtaking another vehicle, you're obliged
by law to sound your horn. This was quite off-putting when a massive
truck's behind you blaring away.
As intimidating as these buses
and lorries, with their brightly painted designs, were if you
met any of the drivers at one of the many roadside eating places
they were always incredibly helpful and friendly. Unbelievable
how easily they changed into homicidal maniacs. The amount of
accidents we saw on the roads was amazing, often involving horrific
carnage.
The bike wasn't faring well under
this abuse. The brakes were worse than ever. The speedo was broken.
Various bits and bobs had cracked or fallen off or disintegrated.
Basically, the quality of the materials used to build the bike
were substandard. The kickstart developed a habit of falling off.
A loud rattle came from the engine. Having heard that valve clearances
were critical on these bikes to avoid burnt out valves, I checked
the gaps only to find that one of the pushrods was bent. The engine
had also developed an unhealthy appetite for spark plugs.
On arrival in Varanasi over Xmas
it was decided to book a train to Cochin in the south for New
Year's day. At five in the morning we discovered the bike didn't
want to start. Indian guards started to take an interest in our
plight and eventually we had about eight of them bump start me
whilst holding their guns at the same time. We were of far more
interest than guarding the golden temple.
After arriving at the station
we booked the bike on to the Kerala Express. Took much filling
out of forms and petty bureaucracy - you soon learn patience in
India. After much baksheesh the bike was loaded up on to the train
and we settled in for the next four days and nights.
Many of the stations that we passed
on the way to Cochin had bikes waiting on the platform, packed
up and wrapped in hessian and other padding. Ours, of course,
was not. On arrival at out destination our fears were realised.
The bike looked like it'd spent most of the journey the wrong
way up. It had lost oil and petrol, had bent levers.
After much baksheesh several men
unloaded the bike, and we set about kicking the thing into shape.
Trying to complain about this was a waste of time as the policeman
on duty became pretty nasty until we signed the papers and then
it was too late.
Leaving the station late at night
in a strange town miles from home we found the bike wouldn't start.
After much fiddling I diagnosed that the petrol was not getting
through. On removal of the tap it was found to be totally blocked
up with red paint. Oh well, at least it wasn't raining. By the
way, an Indian respray involves two coats of paint over the top
of the existing ones with no lacquer.
In the state of Kerala, things
began to pick up. The roads were clearer, lined with palm trees
and National Highway 47 ran right along the coast. Road manners
were far better all round and the weather was hot for me. After
burning my head and face (no helmets) I had to take to wearing
a hat and scarf as protection from the sun - this was winter in
the south!
We still passed people on bicycles,
defying the laws of physics with massive loads and motorcycles
carrying three or four people - truly family transport. We rode
all the way to Kovalam, an idyllic beach area. I took off on my
own for a few days on the bike, leaving the luggage and pillion
behind. I headed for Perriyar Lake, a massive nature reserve.
This entailed heading for the mountains. The scenery was incredible.
The atmosphere was cooler, the road at first good but became worse
and worse until it ended up all potholes.
Apparently this was due to the
monsoons. I came across many mixed sex gangs working on the roads,
always waving and smiling. In areas where the road was half reasonable
I gave the bike its head to see how it'd go with no luggage or
pillion. The hairpin bends with sheer drops made things interesting,
as did the potholes and gravel. Occasional lorries or coaches
would come sideways around bends, encouraging great restraint
on my part. I passed through many hill stations and plantations;
scenery straight out of the P.G.Tips' adverts.
On arrival at my destination I
found a guide for my safari. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to
be talked into leaving immediately; no time for recovery from
my journey. I started to have my doubts when the inebriated guide
insisted that we took the bike as it was a long walk. To cut a
long story short, we ended up riding along an extremely narrow
path, certainly not suitable for a motor vehicle. We rode up the
side of a very steep hill, the incline made it extremely difficult
for me to keep the bike upright. I yearned for my old KDX 200.
Eventually I told the guide that we would walk from there much
to his disappointment.
We left the bike to go wild elephant
spotting. On our return to the bike we had to ride back down the
steep slope, with poor brakes on a very windy and narrow path
and steep drops to either side. I was feeling quite tired by then.
When the petrol ran out I'd had more than enough. Coasting down
to the road I persuaded a passing scooterist to spare us a little
fuel at an outrageous cost.
The following morning I headed
back towards my luggage and pillion, again basking in the splendour
of the scenery and hairpin roads. Suddenly, PING! The clutch cable
broke. Now things were really looking up - poor roads, maniac
drivers, elephants in the roads, no brakes, poor handling and
now no clutch.
Booting the box with some violence,
I rode for many miles until I reached a small village. With sign
language I conveyed my problem to a fascinated group of Indians
who directed me to the local mechanic. On finally finding him,
after much head scratching and poking about, he diagnosed a broken
clutch cable.
Exasperated I headed off, the prospect of night
falling only adding to the possible problems. Oddly enough in
the next village I came to a car repair shop where I decided to
see if they could solder a nipple on to the cable. Much to my
surprise they produced a brand new one still in the wrapper.
When the time finally came for
my friend and I to split, it was decided we would sell the bike.
We had many offers, until we finally went for one of them it transpired
that to properly own the vehicle in India a logbook meant nothing
- a signed declaration in the presence of a magistrate was needed.
In the words of our prospective purchaser, all from Delhi are
thieves and crooks.
I had to return to Delhi for my
flight to England, my friend was heading to Bombay. Of course
I got lumbered with taking the bike back to Laxi Motors by train.
Many things happened on the return journey. Of course, I had the
bike wrapped this time. I picked up a helper in Delhi to help
me unload the bike and to direct me through the chaos of the city...He
was dragged off the back of the bike by four policemen who proceeded
to beat him with their sticks! They told me he was known to be
a very bad man! I also ran out of petrol and was pushed for about
a mile by an auto-rickshaw - quite an experience in itself.
Finally, I made it back to the
dealers where I was offered, after much haggling, 400 dollars.
What choice did I have? No-one else would touch it and I was leaving
the next afternoon. The money was paid in rupees, so many of them
that I had a bag full of money like a bank robber.
All in all, the Enfield was uncomfortable,
slow, poor starting and was a victim of poor quality control.
However, I loved every minute of the trip and came out more or
less in one piece. I would be interested to ride a Royal Enfield
as I've heard that they are better. Something on which the kickstart
stayed on would be nice.
The Indians were very nice and
extremely inquisitive, wherever we parked up we drew a big crowd.
The fact that the only decent eye protection that I could get
hold of was a full moto-cross mask (you come across the most unexpected
things in India), probably raised our interest value. I'm planning
an overland trip to India on a BMW R100GS. Now that should be
interesting.
Richard Pelham