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 Lax 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 - 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 gear change 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 onto 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 fairing 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 KDX200. 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 way, 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 when 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 Lax 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, bad 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
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