profile | indialogue

As my illness started to decline, I felt my energy and enthusiam flow back faster than my strength. The malady which had been exacerbated by a couple of nights on the puff while I adjusted to Ma'ayan's absence and failed to adjust to a new timetable, I vanquished a few days later with another night of the same. After the slightest of spliffs, I had a shower, practiced my riff or the guitar, read my book, wrote the end of the previous letter, went to bed, got up for a mango, went to bed, and finally got up and started to convert all my letters so far into this HTML, while planning my new business as multimedia tutor, renouned existentialist author, and back street masseur. A thoroughly enjoyable night. The next day was no less eventful and despite the bulge in my neck and dearth of sleep, I met some Tibetans studying multimedia, entertained Bjorn (who after three days had descended from his party in the mountains and read my sick and lonely injuction to visit which had been scrawled on a piece of paper, hauled up to his village, and scrunched under his door one previous insomniac dawn), introduced a couple of those Tibetans to Director and 3DMAX. Then I discovered that the start of my job would be delayed another fortnight while they prepare the media. Not wishing to inflict this sedentary homo cyberian posture upon me even a week longer than necessary, I needed to think up an adventure, and quickly. Two weeks is enough to become a Reiki Master and to heal any ailments with my bare hands. There was time for a full power Goenka vipassana. I could advertise intensive expensive multimedia courses for curious westerners. But first I would see about an Enfield.

At the mechanics I met an Israeli who informed me that his compatriots had left Manali recently in such a hurry, as to completely upset the second hand Enfield Market. There were rows of them he said, all going begging. "Right!" I pledged. "One last busride in all India and I shall have the finest Enfield that e'er graced a roving Shockwave programmers thighs!"

I boarded a local bus (the tourist buses had been canceled owing to lack of interest)and got to Manali early evening. It was much nicer travelling by day, but certainly a very circuitous journey. I lept on to a Rickshaw and demanded to be taken to the nearest Enfield dealer - it was early evening.
"To buy Enfield?" the driver hesitated, "Not possible." so we went to a rental place, where I mentioned the name of the dealer the Israeli reccommended. The mechanic knew it, and so did the rickshaw driver. He took me there and I was shown a few bikes at ordinary prices - they seemed to have recovered pretty quickly. Then with night coming on, the driver took me to Vashisht - the backpacker infested village nearby. I remembered that this was where Rami, my guitar teacher was staying, and sought him out within an hour, and was soon surrounded by Israelis. He announced his intention to go to Leh in Jammu and Kashmir, and there was talk of a convoy of Enfields going up the day after with a mechanic.
Next morning I hired a scooter and scooted round Manali and Old Manali keeping appointments to see promised bikes which were absent for one reason or another. I found a dealer in Old Manali however, who gave me no nonsense, a Sikh who spoke Hebrew with the vast majority of his customers. He seemed to have a great deal of traffic passing through, a couple of mechanics under his care, and to be on very good terms with his customers. Moreover, he had three workshops in popular traveller spots in India and offered me a bike inclusive of new seat, handlebars and roofrack, which though not cheap, I was taken with, and bought that evening.

Let me tell you now that an Enfield is a big bike. It has big wheels, a big petrol tank and high handlebars. The engine is huge, and chugs rather than purs, slowly and noisy, especially uphill. All its innards are exposed to the world and readily accessible for regualar maintenance. Sitting on the seat, its a struggle to keep the weight of the stationary bike upright - its only really happy when its cruising, when an extra passenger and luggage makes no difference to the handling. In town though, the slow speeds, the width of the roofrack, the spurious gear changing all contribute to the feeling of being a fish out of water. But if it starts to fall sideways underneath you, the best you can do is help it to the ground, and get a passer by to help you up!
By the next morning I had identified a few things that needed doing, apart from the painting of the roof rack. One rear indicator had fallen off, the indicators did not work, there were no mirrors, the speedo was disconnected, the handlebars and leg-guard were loose and the front light had a loose connection. As I rode back into Old Manali I fell down a hole in the road and bent my front forks, which cost about 14 pounds to replace. I put all of these complaints on a list and hung around Old Manali for the day, trying to avoid Israelis. Managed to buy a second hand manual camera (without a light meter) )for under the odds. The wind on mechanism was a bit sticky, and it didn't count the pitures, and the film speed setting device was a bit worn out but it was a Cannon, and I was pleased.
I went to sit next to an amicable looking group and was recognised by one of them, Tamara, whom I had helped to buy a train ticket in Gorackpur. Also were two English, two French and a Canadian, I sat with them, then ate with them, and made friends in particular with Ben, 27, from Brighton, who hasn't chosen a direction in life yet, but who struck me from the first as open and honest. I said I'd join the group in Parvatti valley and Ben agreed to ride pillion. Cool!
From the jobs on the list, only the roof rack had been painted and with several reminders, the headlamp rewired unconvincingly by a teenager. On the way back to get my luggage, the bike broke down with a flat battery, perhaps because I'd been using the headlamp, fortunately next to the Enfield club. We got a jump start, but when it stalled again I had to leave it. Bonny picked it up honorably that night.
Next morning Bonny pointed out that I'd left the choke on and that the bike was fine. I said ok, but was doubtful. There was an Israeli hanging around the shop who needed to sell his bike that day.
I conferred with Ben - If he could ride it back to Dharamsala I could sell it at my leisure for a profit. He agreed, but it was nearly evening by the time Bonny had okayed it and changed the clutch. I gave the paperwork to Ben who gave it to the boy, who put it in the compartment of the bike. Legally the carrier of the papers is the carrier of the bike, Bonny told me. You need the registration documents, 3rd party insurance, and a pollution test certificate(not applicable to commercial vehicles since they have unions under whose protection they can run on cooking gas [cough cough].


So we set out for Parvatti Valley, starting in first gear. Ben did very well, never having driven a car before. We got through Manali, filled up with petrol, and out onto the open road. The rule is that the bigger vehicle has right of way, and on narrow, windy, blind roads this can make motorcycling hazardous. The best thing is to slow right down when passing a large vehicle and use the horn on the corners. Horn is also used conventionally when you want to overtake, and when you see some pedestrians, or animals, and in built up areas, especially in traffic jams, and as a greeting of course. In England a car horn often means the driver is pissed off, but here it means more that the driver isn't pissed.

matbike ben

My new camera in action! Note that the left side of the picture is clear, while the right side is blurred. [Right] departing on our first leg. [Left] going somewhere to change the battery
vipassana
Darkness fell as we entered Parvatti valley, but with no traffic we decided to proceed the final 25km to Kasol where we were awaited. Then Bens bike stalled (it had been stalling rather a lot, actually) and it looked like a petrol blockage. Using bump starts and lots of revs, I got it going again, but it stopped. Ben discovered the petrol filter had fallen off and luckily found it on the road. He also noticed that the side compartment was open and that the documents had fallen out.Fortunately there was a cafe within hailing distance and chai and witnesses were on hand. One of them seemed to recognise the problem, and apparently fixed it by playing with the alternator. Then my bike wouldn't start. It turned out to be completely empty of fluid. Not only that, but one of the contacts was shrouded in copper oxide. With no intact wire to jump start, we couldn't succeed, but a passing motorist was very helpful. We abandoned my bike for the night.The other bike spluttered another kilometer before giving up, and aforementioned motorist got us to Kasol by midnight. We had reached our destination but the journey was not over! Next day we retrived Ben's bike which was revived overnight and had something called the condenser swopped by a visiting mechanic. It was truly fixed! The next day half of our group left to walk up the valley and Ben and I and Georgie (another Georgie) stayed to prepare the bikes to get to Dharamsala in time for the Dalai Lama's birthday. But we still had to retieve and fix my bike. Hopefully it was just the battery, which we could refill and charge in Bunta, the town on the main road at the end of the valley.
It was mid afternoon by the time we assembled to await the next bus. A couple of sikhs on a Honda screeched to a halt next to us and introduced themselves. Did we want some charas? A baba walked up and they gave him a bit. Then a taxi careered down the hill taking the corner too wide. There was no way it could miss the bike and the Sikhs. It smashed into the back of the bike, spinning it round and flinging it into the ditch, along with both boys and the baba. I looked again and the taxi was off the other side of the road on its side.
Ben ran to the taxi, kicked out the windscreen and turned off the ignition. The driver was unconscious. An open bottle of whiskey was beside him. I went for the baba, who eventually got himself up, complaining about his shoulder. The driver was whisked off in a car before, apparently, he could be linched. Even though he was hurt, knocking over a sadhu would not be forgiven. We hauled the bike out as indians started to swarm over the crash site. The bus arrived and as we got on everyone else got out to have a nose, even though the road was clear. From the bus I remembered my camera, as I wound it on for an action photo, the lever jammed -never to move again.
We all decided we had better drive carefully, and that we had been lucky that none of us had been touched by this mishap. In Bunta we charged the battery, ascertained that the camera wouldn't be mended, bought some shoes suitable for changing gear and missed the last bus back. It was dark by the time a driver going in the opposite direction took sympathy on us, and as he took us a good 10km out of his way, he told us about his travel agency business. We regretted not being in a position to do business. He oversaw the fitting of the battery and the starting of the bike, and finally, with hitching, pillion and a wing and a prayer, we got the bike, and the three of us back to the guesthouse.
Next morning we left as early as possible, not knowing what malfunctioning adventures awaited us, or what predestined distasters the bikes had yet in store. They both started, and we got out of Parvatti and to the bike shop in Bunta, where we stopped for a drink. Unfortunately neither bike started from there. Ben's spark plug wire detatched itself and continued to do so throughout the day. I failed to start because the corrosion on my battery made a bad connection. Fortunately Georgie is an freelance theatre electrician with strong social skills, so with the help or hindrance of curious and helpful indians teeming over the bikes she sorted that and the spark plug and we were off again, cruising along a patchwork road along a deep gorge with waterfalls cascading down the steep sides and the sun bringing out the greenery and other colors in the rock. My plan was to fit catalytic converters at Mundi, the biggest town in the area, but when we got there it was 'no possible' so after lunch we moved on, riding high along the side of a vast valley. Then I ran out of petrol.
A quick calculation revealed that I must be getting only 16 km per litre, when I should be doing 25. hmmm. A van load of passing indians who didn't see to have anything better to do all stopped and help diagnose the problem, to drain some petrol from Ben's tank and put it in mine. Then I left for the nearest village where I discovered petrol was yet another 20km hence. Then I ran out again. The indians came up behind and helped to flag down a couple of cars to beg for petrol, but we didn't have a tube for syphoning, despite the willingness of passers by to help. But where were Ben and Georgie? A passing car brought the message that their accelerator cable had snapped, so I sent the tool kit by return. But it was no good. We all rode back in the van to where Ben and Georgie were respectively chilling and fuming by the roadside and then I accepted a lift to the town, where a mechanic was procured and some other indians, and some petrol and sweets, and all brought back in a car to the seperated bikes. When his accelerator cable was changed, Ben's battery was flat, so I brought my bike back and the mechanic charged it from that, then we all convoyed to the town for the night. 3hrs short of our destination.
Hanging round the mechanic's shop making known our preference for budget accommodation, we were invited by a couple of brothers whose parents were away to stay at their house. So were treated to a room and shower, and food and whiskey and jigging and jokes, until we could jig and joke no more. Then in the morning Ben hungover, we left with many promises of hospitality and exchanging of email addresses.
When they're not being hopelessly inefficient, Indians are so obliging. One can get used, in this country, to being treated like royalty. But this is not grovelling before money in the hope that some of it rubs off, which might be expected, but some other form of putting westerners on a pedestal. Its not being put on a pedestal that unnerves me, but the way Indians stop their lives when I come along. Several people have just gone a long way out of their way for us, and I think they wouldn't have done so for their fellow countrymen. Draw what conclusions you like from this.
The only problem the next day was when I had a hitcher, and stalled on hilly hairpin, the bike slid backwards and into the ditch knocking the chain off. We washed the oil off our hands with juicy mango pips and arrived in McLeodGanj before evening.

Riding an Enfield really feels like a trial of luck. Every chug of the engine is a blessing from heaven. As the big wheels and the heavy bike bounce and glide along the road, its almost like riding a probability wave rather than a bike. The worst part of owning an Enfield is starting it. If it starts then you're probably ok. When it is broken you depend on the folk wisdom of generous passing indians, or if that fails, you have to find a mechanic and pay him to come out to the bike. I really need to learn some Enfield maintenance skills, but on the other hand Ben has shown some interest in Enfields as a possible career.

Follow-up visits to the local mechanic have revealed that it may cost up to £150 to buy some documents from an older bike - which was more than my profic margin. That bike also had a loose chain, which couldn't be tightened because the small sprocket was loose, then we discovered that about a third of the teeth on the main sprocket are broken. There has been some progress though getting mirrors and lights working.

The moment we arrived, my whole life started to go downhill. Ben's hangover never got better so we all stayed in the same room for the next week. Georgie and I hung out and about and shopped and played a lot of backgammon. The dissection of my new and jammed camera revealed only my own ignorance and clumsiness; I don't know if even an expert could save it now! Ben was diagnosed first with typhoid and given antibiotics, then with just a fever, though I thought he was jaundiced. the folks at the cafe gave Munchie back to me on the basis that she behaves like a street dog, biting everyone and getting dirty. Then Georgie departed leaving me about to start work sharing a room with a moaning groaning Ben and an excitable bitable Munchie. She really is hard work. She howls when I go to see a film and follows me everywhere. On the street she gets distracted and lost or too involved running from other dogs to notice the cars. A couple of times I had to retrieve her from her previous home in the next village, Bagsu. She won't eat daal, she gets restless and bites but won't leave the room without me. I suppose we're bonding. Ben got yellower and yellower and is displaying all the symptoms of Hep A so we got him to hospital where he was admitted on the spot.

My client informed the day after I was supposed to have started that the brief for the game was nearly finalised, but that they wanted to prepare the graphics before I came in on the job. This will take another three weeks !! and I just don't know what to do with myself. My landlord approached me the other day and said this month we agreed is taking so long that my computer has depreciated. I printed off the poster below and asked why it came out in purple. He said I was not permitted to conduct my business on his premises since it was illegal for me to work. But he said, if I did it indirectly, and cut him in. I redid the poster, but he didn't put it up.

matposter

So I end on a down note this time, all my cards have turned up bad in the last week, and I must decide what to do with the next three weeks, an overdraught, depreciating assets, an expensive rent agreement, a hyperactive dog, and no healthy friends. A quote from the musical Chess comes to mind. I didn't come to India for a holiday, or even to travel. I came to live my life, or at least a portion of it.

"And now I'm where I want to be
And who I want to be
And doing what I always said I would
And yet I feel I haven't won at all."

Matthew
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