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 renown 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, 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 I 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 Rhajistand 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