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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 at the room and recoiled in disgust. To hide a patchwork of filthy stains, I threw the bike cover over the bed and spread out my sleeping bag. Despite the grim conditions, there was a shower, but only after I’d cleared a bird’s nest of hair and other unmentionables from the drain.

The day’s grime flushed away, it was great to be clean and to put on fresh but crumpled clothes. As I poked another hole in my belt, I had to accept that all the pedalling, to which I was unaccustomed, was taking its toll. At this rate, I’d be pipe-cleaner thin by the time I got to Belgium.

My route was to take me, via Basti, to Barabanki. I left at 5.00 am, and in the poor light I failed to notice there were two towns with the same name. You guessed: I chose the wrong one.

Sixty kilometres off course, and with me pushing hard to make up for lost time, the bike suffered a seizure on the number-one cylinder. I dismantled the engine on the side of the road, the usual horde of onlookers appearing from nowhere to stare in amazement as I laid out the parts in some semblance of order.

‘Can someone find me a hammer?’ I appealed to the crowd. One chap returned with a hefty mallet, which, despite its size, worked better than the rock I’d been using to drive out the gudgeon pin. I managed to file off the fused pieces of aluminium and was relieved to find no other visible damage. All the while, the onlookers chatted among themselves, picking up parts, examining and passing them back and forth. So great was the interest, I might have been a visitor from Mars.

Eventually, the bike was back together, and a quick shove helped me on my way. Two days into India and already I had broken down several times. Hoping this wasn’t an omen for the rest of the journey, I remained optimistic that keeping the FN going was achievable. My years of playing around with engines had taught me plenty. Without those mechanical skills, life would have been a whole lot tougher.

Almost from the moment I crossed the border, I recognised how much that religion is integral to life in India: ceremony takes precedence over everything. I found myself caught in processions even when I had no intention of joining in. One minute I’d be on my own — if such a thing is possible in India — the next I’d be surrounded by chanting devotees carrying banners and brilliantly decorated effigies. Everyone ambled along, in lengthy processions, oblivious to the traffic, which could be held up for hours.

The FN, too, was sometimes a traffic stopper. Motorists would drive alongside to gape at the bike and take pictures on their phones. The curiosity was to be expected, but when drivers swerved in front of the bike without warning it reminded me of the constant peril I faced. Someone once tried to tell me that life in India is not accorded much value. It is hard to imagine that drivers have a death wish, but, as in Bali, they certainly don’t appear to have any idea how dangerous their manoeuvres are. Already I was acutely aware that I was on a trip not for the faint-hearted!