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