the address for the first night’s accommodation. The hotel was in Thamel somewhere. The signs, of course, were all in Nepalese. As luck would have it, there were two Thamels — and I was not going to make it to either before nightfall.
The bike stalled repeatedly because of water in the fuel. With traffic jostling around me, and horns blaring, I struggled to push the bike onto the footpath to drain the carburettor before I could re-enter the fray. At low speed, and with under-inflated tyres, the FN handled poorly under its excess load. And I wasn’t faring much better.
As twilight deepened, the risk of being on the road increased. I had once ridden after dark in Bolivia and almost run into a rope strung across the road. I swore I’d never be that dumb again. I stopped to weigh my options, my knees trembling. The mix of thin air and heady excitement were catching up with me.
‘Can I be of assistance, mister?’ a stranger asked.
I explained my problem.
‘It’s not safe to stop here after dark,’ he warned. ‘Better you come to my guesthouse. It’s not far.’
My head bobbed like a dashboard dog. I was grateful for the offer and too weary to argue. Together, we pushed the FN two kilometres before heaving it into the hotel foyer and pushing it out of sight.
The room was small, the shower cold and the bed hard, but at least everything was clean. I barely managed to charge my mobile phone before the hum of generators signalled the power had gone off. Exhausted, I switched off the light, lay on the narrow cot and closed my eyes. I’d just drifted off when there was a knock on the door.
‘Here, Mr Ron, something for you to eat,’ said the manager, grinning broadly. I thanked him for the packet of orange biscuits and crawled back into bed, appreciative of the gesture but desperate for sleep.
Immediately after breakfast, armed with two jerry cans, I went in search of petrol. I met an English-speaking taxi driver at a street corner, and for the next two hours we drove all over town, squeezing through narrow alleyways and knocking on door after door.
I’d ask, ‘Do you have any benzine for sale?’ and always, from chubby faces peering out beneath richly-patterned tasselled hats, came the reply, ‘Chaina’ (No). Householders in Nepal, I learned, squirrel away whatever petrol they can get their hands on, either for their own use or to sell on the black market. Today, no one was sharing.
Across the city, tangled webs of power lines link the buildings. Each morning, amid a constant cacophony, street cleaners sweep away yesterday’s odorous residue, while fruit vendors busily trade from their bicycles.
At every intersection, two-stroke bikes jockey for position. In an effort to reduce the smog the prime minister, Baburam Bhattarai, had ordered military personnel to use bicycles as transport at least one day a week. So pervasive was the pollution, it was hard to tell if his decree was making any difference.
‘Stay here,’ my friendly taxi driver ordered. ‘When they see you they don’t sell.’ Soon he came back from around a corner with six litres. In a way, he was probably right — except that we were now at a gas station! Although I paid twice the going rate, I was relieved I could at last get on my way. The delays were driving me nuts.
Back at the hotel, the bill for the night had my eyebrows raised. ‘I’m giving it to you cheaper because you’re old,’ declared the manager, pointing to the ledger’s list of names and prices paid. I thanked him and shook his hand. With hindsight, I should have checked the tariff first. Ah well, another lesson learned.
Before leaving Kathmandu, I needed to clarify the way to Pokhara. It was impossible to read maps on the iPhone, so I resorted to asking locals for directions. I figured I’d be right when two people pointed the same way.
Even with the luggage strapped on firmly, riding was difficult. Pedestrians and motorcycles darted in and out. I’d move a metre or two, then stop, move again, then stop … This didn’t sit well with the FN, and I hadn’t yet twigged the benefit of saving the clutch by turning off the engine and push-starting. I was about to learn the hard way.
Amid the mayhem — and with my nerves strung out — I felt the clutch slip. I pulled over to adjust it. That was when I discovered that the substitute fibre plates I was using were not up to the job. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I asked people gathering around if I could take the bike apart on the footpath. Everyone agreed, ‘Yes, yes, no problem.’
Of course, it was a problem for the owner of the shop in front of which I was doing my repairs. When he turned up, he basically told me to remove all the crap off his step and bugger off!
The parts were snatched up and spread on newspaper on the dusty road, no longer in any semblence of order. Thankfully, Yogendra and Hari, two local mechanics who had helped me remove the motor, took the clutch plates away. They ground them on a piece of concrete until the steel was clear of fibre. The FN normally uses 15 steel clutch plates, and I had replaced six of these with fibre plates to create a softer clutch. Fortunately, I carried the original steel plates with me as spares, so all was not lost. But I did break an engine mount in the process.
I was back on the road within three hours. The two young men who had helped refused payment and waved me on my way. For the rest of the day, I rode on extremely steep, potholed roads. One seriously precipitous section took half an hour to negotiate. I shuddered at the thought of riding in the opposite direction.
By now, the traffic was thinning. I passed two buses embracing each other after a head-on collision. I would soon become used to sights like this. Gripping the handlebars even more tightly, and trying to balance a spare fuel-can on the tank, I focused on keeping the bike upright.
As I rounded a bend on one sharp descent, the fuel can tottered and slid on to the road. By the time I had propped the bike against a post and scurried back, a car had run over the funnel of the plastic container, thus rendering it useless. Bugger!
Seventy-three kilometres from Kathmandu, I began searching for a place to spend the night. With great relief, I came across the Pokhara Guesthouse. Crowds of onlookers quickly gathered, eager to pose beside the FN and have their pictures taken with mobile phones. The name of the guesthouse proved a misnomer: I still had to travel nearly twice as far to get to Pokhara.
The English-speaking hosts were welcoming, and I was served a satisfying meal of chicken stew, rice and potatoes. It was just what I needed after such an exhausting day.
Ohading, a local schoolteacher, brought his class along to inspect the bike. Most of the children spoke English, and they were curious.
‘Where are you from?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘How old is the bike?’
‘Where is your wife?’
I wondered how many times in the months ahead I’d be subjected to such interrogations.
When Lynne Skyped me that evening, and heard of the day’s hassles, she suggested I chalk it up as my initiation. She said that having survived the trials of the previous two days the rest of the journey would be a breeze. She knew I just needed to vent.
I
