I’d had with a chap who’d ridden across the subcontinent had put the wind up me a little. ‘Nepal is a piece of cake,’ he’d boasted. ‘Wait until you reach India. It’s fucking insane.’
I decided, that if that were true, then I’d better stop complaining and enjoy the easy going while it lasted! Better to focus on tackling one day at a time — and remember to breathe deeply. There’s a level of comfort in going to bed believing tomorrow will be a better day, but things rarely turn out the way we expect.
Dark clouds gathered overnight, and when I set out for Pokhara early next morning, the storm hit with a vengeance. The FN started well initially, but when the motor became saturated it died. I tried rolling it downhill, but it refused to start again until I took shelter and dried the spark plugs and distributor. I don’t mind riding in rain, but this was over the top, especially with the electrics constantly dying on me.
My Huskie gear stood up to the elements for nearly four hours, which was remarkable considering the deluge. Eventually though, moisture began to seep through the seams, and my fancy waterproof boots also gave up the ghost. I refused to give in. Hunched down low over the tank, I was barely able to see a thing through the pissing rain.
The road had broken up so badly on one stretch that I could only travel at 15 kmh. I counted the wreckage of about a score of vehicles along the way. At 3.00 pm, after eight hours of torture, I crawled into Pokhara, chilled and bone weary.
Ten minutes under a scalding hot shower had me rejuvenated. From the hotel roof, I took in the view. For the first time, I began to appreciate my surroundings. The weather had cleared, revealing neatly cultivated valleys backed by majestic snow-capped ranges. It began to sink in: I was in the Himalayas, at the top of the world. Elated, I knew that life doesn’t get much more spectacular than this.
5
The Long Way Down
Fuel continued to be a problem. I spent hours trudging around Pokhara in a vain search, until an almond-eyed girl offered to help. Together, Pumam and I visited several outlets on her scooter. Eventually, one invited us to come back at 6.00 pm, when a delivery was due. We returned, and got to fill the tank plus 10 more litres.
The winding, mountainous road to the Indian border town of Palpa was in good condition — well, it was good for this part of the world. Even with light traffic, it still took me nine hours to travel 160 kilometres. Over the worst sections, I pedalled and pushed up more than 20 hills. My head pounded in the thin mountain air, and my legs trembled with relief as we reached each summit. The FN valiantly took them all, bar one, in her stride. On that occasion, I paid a passerby to help push the final 20 metres. It was money well spent.
With some of the world’s highest mountains as a backdrop, and a steely grey river snaking far below, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the stunning beauty around me. Pastel-coloured houses and neatly tended vegetable plots dotted the hillsides. As tempting as it was to take lots of photos, it was difficult to stop because there was rarely anywhere to park safely.
Once, when negotiating my way through a convoy of trucks, one driver decided to reverse, missing the bike by centimetres. My shouts fell on deaf ears. Only when his passenger jumped down from the cab to give directions was I noticed jammed between the truck and cliff face. His incredulous stare attested to my narrow escape. I leant against the bank and waited for my heart to stop pounding before I pushed off again.
At Palpa, Nepalese customs stamped my passport, then insisted I get a copy made for them. I followed their directions to a printer. An hour-and-a-half later, when the power came back on, I got the copy. I had chosen this route to avoid the endless paperwork and long delays usually encountered at busier border crossings. Something wasn’t working.
On the Butwal side of the border, it was election time and the immigration office was closed until 1.00 pm. A strong military presence persuaded me that taking photographs wouldn’t be welcome. While I sat and waited, the tea wallah was sent to get refreshments. When he returned, with hot tea and ginger-nut biscuits, I was contemplating a vast compound full of derelict trucks, motorcycles, and 4WDs.
‘Why are all these vehicles here?’ I asked. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘Many travellers with no papers,’ he replied, his head wagging rhythmically side to side, ‘so police lock up their transport.’
Each vehicle, tyres flat, bodywork weathered and dusty, stood testament to unfilled overland dreams.
Finally, with the immigration officers back on the job, my carnet was stamped. Soon after being cleared through customs and getting back on the road, I ran into trouble. The valve springs started to collapse, each incident marked by a change in engine noise before power fell away and the bike stopped. After a few collapses, it took me only 15 minutes to remove the manifold, locate the offending spring (sometimes it had been sucked into the engine), either stretch or replace it, and fit a new clip to secure the spring.
The springs were not my only problem. Suddenly there was an almighty bang: it was the back tyre flying off the rim. I was careering about the road and, in panic, I tried using the back-pedal brake. Damn, it didn’t work!
Even the steel rim skating along the ground, sparks flying, did little to slow me. My heart was in my mouth as I clung on, afraid of being hit by oncoming vehicles. Finally we ground to a halt. I staggered off, dizzy and shaking.
In the stifling heat, replacing the tyre was a struggle, worsened by passersby crowding in for a better look. Everyone offered advice, in a mixture of English and Hindi, on how I should do the job. Before I could get the wheel out, the bike had to be jacked up with a rock under the engine so that the stand could be removed. For once, having helpers there to steady the machine was a blessing.
When the repairs were complete, I pointed to a name on a scrap of paper and asked, wearily, ‘Where will I find this hotel?’
‘That way,’ volunteered a man with a fierce moustache. Several others nodded, but it was clear not everyone was in agreement.
‘So what do you suggest?’ I asked. An elderly gent in a pristine white kurta tugged at my sleeve: ‘Sir, sir, let me show you a very, very good hotel.’
A discussion ensued and I looked on expectantly, wishing I hadn’t opened my big mouth. A sea of arms, like an animated Lord Vishnu, pointed in every direction. Why was everything proving to be so damn hard?
‘It must be clean,’ I insisted. ‘I need a clean hotel with plenty of hot water.’ Judging by the looks I received, I might as well have been asking if it was safe to swim in the Ganges.
The hostelries Lynne and I had sourced before leaving home were often impossible to locate. Such places were rarely advertised and locals weren’t familiar with hotels geared to the tourist industry. Originally, I’d hoped to save money by camping, but I was kidding myself if I thought I could erect a tent. In fact, it was ridiculous to imagine camping anywhere in India outside of national parks. I smiled at my ignorance.
One downside of using hotels was Indians’ penchant for ledger-keeping. I’d love a dollar for every time I had to sign my name. In one lodging, my signature went on the register 18 times.
The hotel voted the best by the head-bobbing crowd was ghastly, but it was too late in the day to search for another. I took one look
