Road to Nepal

I very well could have titled this Holy #@!&ing &%(! (Part II) or To: Steve O’Neil From: India Memo: We’re not done with you yet, but my final day in India was easily one of my longest and most tiring. It’s a strange thing sitting down to recap events over here. While toiling away on the bike for hours I think up endless quotes and snippets to weave into these stories. On most days when the snippets are really flowing I’ll pull over and jot them down over a chai. Yesterday was the Niagara Falls of one liners yet not once did I pull over to put them into ink. Not once did I have time. March 2nd (Day 173), my final travel day in India lasted thirteen hours…

5:43am – My internal alarm clock beat my real alarm clock by 2 minutes. The day begins.

6:20am – After packing and kick starting the Tuna I noted my time of departure. From the dyed rubbish filled streets where the party ended just hours before, I thought to myself I might as well be riding out of the French Quarter at dawn on Ash Wednesday.

7:00ish – After getting turned around in the labyrinth that is Varanasi and receiving several conflicting sets of directions I found myself heading north on the two-lane secondary Rt. 66 and not National Highway 29 which I had intended. The morning sun rising to my right for the first time since that fateful ride from Jaisalmer to Bikaner, I began traveling in the direction I will grow most accustom during my remaining time in Asia – North.

7:30ish – After carefully selecting the location of my final morning chai stop I pulled over for what was one of the best. After downing two cups and preparing to head out the friendly boys of Steel Workers Union Local 205 demanded I take their photo. I hope it’s not the case but I doubt very much that morning coffees will ever be as entertaining again in my life as they were on the magical morning roads of India.

7:30 – 11:00ish – To describe this chunk of the morning is to backtrack to Varanasi. The Festival of Colors is a national celebration so in no way are “the shenanigans…tomfoolery… or ballyhoo” limited to select locations. Like the streets of Varanasi the road to Nepal was dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors from the previous day’s celebration. Pinks, purples, greens, blues…the day-old watercolor dye still covered everything from asphalt to clothes to skin to hair to cows to dogs to even monkeys. On my final day in India I can’t think of a more special visual to remind me of the vibrancy of this nation than the living rainbow all around me.

11:00 – 1:30ish – The secondary two-lane Rt. 66 from Varanasi was an accident waiting to happen. Crowded with cyclists, pedestrians, and speeding buses the unsealed road was miserable. I knew eventually the road would link up with my intended route – NH29…as in national highway 29. I was anxiously counting down the distance markers until I hit the merge city from which point I figured it’d be smooth sailing on the national highway. Things couldn’t have gone more differently if Bruckheimer himself was calling the shots. When I finally linked up with NH29, the road to the border, India decided to have one last laugh at my expense. To my horror the road was not a pristine blanket of asphalt on which I could cruise at 40, but rather…drum roll please…The Worst Stretch of Road in India. I know what you’re thinking. This is the final day and O’Neil is embellishing to enhance his story, but trust me when I say that for 18 painful kilometers along NH29 life was hell. Those 18km took me ninety minutes. That’s an average of 7.5mph. The pavement simply dissolved into crater size potholes. There was absolutely no escape and every vehicle, large and small, was slowed to a crawl. The shaking and jolting the Tuna endured was horrific. The mere fact my chassis is still intact is a testament to the durability of the Royal Enfield brand. If the Bullet were a lacrosse player it would no doubt be the stocky defensive mid-fielder who never runs out of steam and can take whatever is thrown at him. I should have named my bike John Rice. When the road ceased to improve after an hour of riding I started to panic. I quickly concluded that if these conditions remained unchanged all the way to the border (some 100km away) I would be spending another night in India. Salvation finally came when I hit the urban outskirts of Gorakhpur and stability (and speed) returned.

1:30ish – I had confirmed that Nepalese tourist visas were issued at the border in exchange for one passport photo and $40 dollars in cold hard US greenbacks. The most memorable ATM run in my life back in Varanasi had produced Indian rupees, but due to the festival all banks and money changers were closed so I faced the annoying task of converting rupees to dollars prior to the border. I figured there would be services to trade currency at the border but given my turtle-like speed I didn’t want to chance arriving after dark, finding shops closed, and stranding myself in a dusty border town for the night. The logical solution was the city of Gorakhpur, 90km south of the border and the last major settlement before Nepal. After riding to what I surmised to be Gorakhpur’s urban center I located the first military uniform and asked where to find a currency exchange. The entire ordeal took no more than thirty minutes before I was off with a crisp $100 dollar note in my wallet to tackle the final stretch of Indian road.

2:00 – 4:45pm – The roughly 90km from Gorakhpur to the Indian border town of Sonauli was unforgettable. The two lanes of NH29Extention shared nothing in common with its dismal counterpart to the south. The road was smooth and empty, or as I like to say at the outset of a day on heavily groomed ski slopes…the track was fast. I hadn’t braked all day since the morning chai stop and I was pretty much running on fumes and adrenaline. Adrenaline fueled by my final moments in India but perhaps more so by the nervous anticipation of the impending border crossing. It was during this final stretch that the what ifs started to flood in. Crossing the border from India into Nepal on foot with a backpack is a no brainer. Given the current political stability in Nepal the doors are wide open and visas are handed out to foreigners as nonchalant as business cards at a commercial real estate brokers convention. The catch was the Tuna (no pun intended). About a week ago I emailed the owner of a Royal Enfield rental shop in the tourist heavy town of Pokhara regarding the logistics of bringing a bike into Nepal. I wanted to know (a) if it was possible, (b) the cost, and most importantly (c) whether the bike’s registration number would be attached to my visa/passport thus creating a problem when I exited the country on a plane and not the Indian-imported, Delhi-registered Royal Enfield Machismo Bullet motorbike on which I entered the country. All concerns were assuaged when the female owner replied back with positive news on all fronts. She said I would have to pay a daily import fee ($1.60usd/day) for the duration of the bike’s stay and that the import certificate would not be attached to my passport. This apparent info from a would-be reliable source gave me the green light but my nerves were still rising as I got closer and closer. My entire day had been music free until I pulled over at the 30km marker and broke out the camera. With a crowd of a dozen looking on I said a few final words into the camera lens before announcing that one song would be taking me home the final 30km stretch. The serene xylophones of So Cool accompanied me into India and it was unthinkable that they wouldn’t accompany me out. My final forty-five minutes of riding in India were magical. I found myself surrounded by lush green fields that went off in the distance seemingly forever. Perhaps the greatest compliment to the music, the setting, and the moment was the late afternoon sun. Never before had I ridden that late in the day so suddenly I found myself in a familiar yet unfamiliar place I loved: the Sweet Spot. The Sweet Spot is that photogenic golden hour in the afternoon sun when blenders come to life and rounds of 18 to a close. For me, like many I assume, it has always been the most feel good time of day. With that the stage was set for my goodbye to India and as the road markers counted down and the inevitable got closer images from my five previous weeks started flashing through my mind. The tearful flight into Mumbai…the wild days of discovery and exploration in Mumbai’s streets…the overnight train to Jaipur…the first Bullet test drive…the drive to Pushkar…the rooftop beauty of Udaipur…the unforgettable arrival into the Blue City…the freezing morning drive into the Great Thar Desert…the outpost beauty of Jaisalmer…the 33 hour of hardship to Amritsar…the border closing ceremony…the first view of the Himalayas…the broken cable adversity…the icy mornings of McLeod Ganj…the twists & turns of Himalayan roads…the three day haul to Delhi…the awe of the Taj…the morning euphoria riding east…the night in Kanpur…the unexpected in Varanasi…and now finally the test of endurance to Nepal. Not gonna lie to you I definitely got choked up and shed a few tears but you probably could have seen that coming. And then it happened. From around a bend come into view my final stop: Sonauli.

4:45 – 5:45pm – I’m pretty sure I would have ridden right up to the border and blown through it had a plain-clothed man not stepped into the street and waved me to stop. He politely ushered me to the Indian immigration office which consisted of three chairs and three old men. I turned on my “yes sir/no sir” switch and started with the paper work. Within minutes I was officially stamped out of India without so much as a word of the massive Delhi-registered Bullet parked outside in plain view. I quickly mounted up and pulled away towards the border not 200 feet away. Inching along in 1^st gear I passed two heavily armed Indian border guards and entered no man’s land. For about 100 feet between India and Nepal there is a dusty clearing that runs to the horizon to both the east and west. Merchant stores run right up to the edge of this buffer zone on both the Nepalese and Indian sides. It was fantastic. I’ve crossed some cool borders but this was by far the most out there and Wild West feeling. I rolled into Nepal, parked my bike outside immigration, and walked in. Twenty minutes later I walked out with a fresh 30-day visa. With that first piece of the puzzle securely in hand I turned around, walked back in, and asked what to do next about my bike. Across the dusty road sat the customs office and my final hurtle. I parked outside in plain view of the entire office staff and walked in. I approached the counter and with a giant smile said ‘namaste’ and “happy holi.’ If I could win these guys over I would be in the clear. A massive pit formed in my stomach when one of the agents asked “carnet?” I replied I did not have one and took it to be a very bad sign when he began laughing. The men spoke in Nepalese for a very long minute before one yelled into the next room and a t-shirt wearing, English-speaking, twenty year old appeared. We shook hands and walked outside. I quickly produced photocopies of the bike’s registration card and my international drivers license. We talked about the daily fee and the hefty penalty for violation and I requested a 29-day permit. Shortly after I was back in customs watching my guy fill out paperwork and getting that giddy feeling inside that I was in the clear. When he presented me the permit to sign I did a mental fist pump when nowhere on the document did my name (or passport details) appear. Hell he hadn’t even asked to see my visa. A handshake later I was off with docs in hand and smile ear to ear. It was done. We were in. Probably not the last time I cross an international border on bike.

5:45 – 6:46pm – The sun quickly heading for the horizon I bolted across the street and produced $60usd at a currency exchange window. With a wad of Nepalese rupees in hand I fired up the Tuna and headed west towards the sinking sun to cover the last 28km to Lumbini – the finish line. The tree-lined ride to Lumbini was pure satisfaction as the realization started to sink in. I had done it. I had ridden a motorbike across India. Even now to write those words seems pretty surreal. It was after nightfall when I finally pulled into the quiet streets of the tiny hamlet. I turned off the engine and marked the time: 6:46pm. The 340km from Varanasi to Lumbini had taken me 13 hours.

7:00 – 10:00ish – Traveling in India you feel like a single drop in the ocean. You simply don’t run into other travelers that way you do in Southeast Asia. Nepal is totally different in that respect. The ocean of Indians shrinks to a pond of Nepalese and the backpacker scene becomes more visible. I was more than pleased to get an immediate taste of that difference at my guest house. After showering I joined two jovial 30-something English couples for a huge dinner and tall bottles of Everest beer. Great company right out of the gates and a welcome indicator of things to come. I can count on one hand the number of drinks I enjoyed in India over five weeks. I’m happy and ready to say the same won’t be true here in Nepal.

…

I’ve been thinking for days now how to conclude India in writing and I still don’t have a good answer. India will always be many things to me. First, India will always be a place of great discovery, adventure, and endurance on the back of a motorbike. All told I rode slightly over 3,300km in India. That’s the same as riding from Manhattan to Albuquerque. I relied on smarts, ingenuity, discipline, and some luck to safely navigate some of the world’s craziest roads. I’m very proud to say I did this:

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&oe=UTF8&num=200&start=78&msa=0&msid=113857108228539669434.000480f652345c8edf1ba&ll=29.573457,77.739258&spn=10.462469,35.15625&z=5

Second, India will always stand as an example of what is possible in life. No idea should be considered off limits, out of bounds, or too farfetched for the undertaking. It’s only by putting yourself completely out there and discovering how you response to unforeseen adversity that you truly get a measure of what you’re capable of. I learned an immeasurable amount about what I’m capable of accomplishing when I commit fully to an idea, project, or in this case a dream.

Finally, India will always be a blinding reminder that happiness doesn’t need to be measured in rupees or dollars. If those that possess so little can find so much love and contentment in their seemingly destitute lives, what the hell are we all really complaining about?

You can take my word or come see for yourself, but it truly is like the advertisements say. It truly is…

!ncredible India

Holi! Holi! or The Day India Painted Me

Varanasi is the kind of place one could write books about if so inspired. The town is simply fascinating. Situated on the banks of the legendary Ganges River Varanasi is the place Hindis come to die, and if not to die at least cremated and set adrift down its holy waters. Whether I was ready for it or not Varanasi hit me the moment I walked out my hotel’s front door to take a peek around. The buildings that line the waterfront alleyways are so tall and so tightly packed together that it’s pretty dark and slightly ominous at ground level both day and night. I forged my way through the canyon floor and found the Ganges. For whatever reason I decided to make a left instead of a right and within two hundred steps came face to face with eleven burning bodies. Before I could take another step forward to improve my view I was told from several somber individuals “no photo.”

It was a sight and procession to behold. The deceased, tightly wrapped in a tunic, are carried down to the river’s edge where they are briefly submerged and receive a final bath in the holy Ganges. They are then carefully laid atop the wood pile and lit. This most sacred of Hindi ceremonies apparently goes on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The amount of firewood is staggering. Fresh from a shower following a 330km day and in search of food only moments before, I stood there fixated upon the blazing corpses on the banks of the Ganges. In your face from the start, that was Varanasi.

I could go on about how instead of cremating lepers, children or those with smallpox they simply row the bodies out to the river’s center and weight them down to the bottom. Or about how a couple I met saw a body floating down the river midday. Or about how despite having some of the worst water quality in India countless Hindis still bath and drink from its holy waters daily. I would prefer however to talk about water balloons.

The Festival of Colors was celebrated Monday March 1^st this year in India. A holy holiday celebrated nationwide I got the sense early on by the immense crowds and visible military presence that being in Varanasi for Holi is like being in the French Quarter for Fat Tuesday. It’s the place to be. I never discovered the religious significance but the day (and days leading up) is celebrated in an anything goes water fight in which dyed water is delivered by child-assassins in the form of water balloons, buckets, bottles, and squirt guns. Everyone in my hotel knew full well the score since for the two preceding days we watched, from the safety of our 7^th story rooftop restaurant, various factions of children wage aquatic warfare on each other.

(Holi morning…)

It was to be my second to last sunrise in India and I wanted to capture it. The timestamp on the above picture is 6:28am March 1^st. By 7am when I walked back into my hotel the atmosphere was tense. Kids get up early on Christmas back home and the same is true on Holi in India. After all kids own the day, or at least the water. From my elevated rooftop vantage point I could tell there was grisly watershed taking place in the streets below already by 9am. I wasn’t particularly interested in soiling a set of clothes, but the real reason I was reluctant to venture out on Holi was a gut feeling that if anything bad was going to happen during my last 48 hours in India it was going to be on the chaotic slippery streets of Varanasi. I then realized I didn’t have enough cash to pay for my room and given my early departure time the following morning I would have to settle up that night. This meant one thing. I would have to make an ATM run…

The way I saw it I was going into war. I retreated to my barracks and laid out all my clothes. What could I afford to potentially sacrifice beyond repair? I settled on one of two identical utility Angkor Wat t-shirts. I couldn’t afford to have those tiny assassins tie-dye any of my pants or shorts so I sat contemplating going out in my unmentionables when I had a stroke of genius. My unused rainbow colored hotel towel would serve as my fatigues from the waist down. I slid into my sandals, wrapped my HSBC card in newspaper, and descended the five flights of stairs to the battlefield.

I guess the accepted rule on Holi is that if you’re foolish/brave/crazy enough to venture out in the morning hours you’re openly declaring yourself in play and thus fair game. My field strategy was to maneuver to the main road, acquire cash, and retread as quickly as possible. I did not however have a map or any intel on my prepubescent enemy combatants. I just knew they were out there and I wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

When I got to my front door I paused, looked left, and looked right. All clear. Then I looked up and found sitting in her window well a tiny young girl holding a water cannon. We locked eyes and smiled. We both knew she couldn’t get me from her position but we also both knew I’d have to cross her immediate line of fire to exit my building. My God this was going to be an intense experience I though. I waited until she momentarily looked the other way and made a run for it. No joke the sky began raining down plastic artillery fire for points I hadn’t even located yet. I quickly learned this army of hidden nuggets had three clear advantages over me: elevation, numbers, and experience.

(Short but deadly.)

My ATM run that morning was as close as I ever want to find myself to urban warfare. Even though the stakes were limited to dry clothes and pride, the feeling of intensity and complete vulnerability was shocking. I found myself running through alleys with eyes darting every which way. Sometimes I saw it coming and other times I was completely caught off guard. I’ll never watch Blackhawk Down the same way again. This photo does little justice to the physical and psychological damage those invisible bastards inflicted on me that morning. The smile is misleading. I was sobbing on the inside.

The opposition and I eventually reached terms of a ceasefire just in time for my final sunset in India.

Morning Extractions

I can say without any hesitation that my most favorite times of riding a motorbike in India are the morning hours that witness my departure and the golden hours that follow. The wonderful marriage of natural beauty and personal optimism reaches its height during the two to three hours following my first kick start of the day. There is a perfect serenity and simplicity to Indian dawns on a motorbike that I’ll always long for. The country coming to life bathed in morning rays is a sight I’ll never tire of. Add to this a personal satisfaction and excitement for what the road ahead might bring and you have the sweet spot of every ride. 

The first two to three hours of each riding day play out in recurring fashion. Dressed in my now standard yet recently washed riding suit, I lash my gear to the rear frame with the rapidly deteriorating green, red, and yellow bungees. Following a check of the oil, tire pressure, and a general once over I kick start the engine…or I should say attempt to kick start the engine. Two thousand kilometers ago the beast fired up after five kicks. These days the Tuna requires a good thirty kicks before roaring to life. After igniting the beating heart I let the bike run idly for five minutes and warm up.

I try to extract myself from any town (McLeod) or city (Jodhpur) or megacity (Delhi) by 7:30am at the absolute latest. Seldom does activity on Indian streets amount to much before 9am so during the 7 o’clock hour I enjoy free reign. The stark contrast between the empty morning streets I exit from and the reliable chaotic afternoon gridlock in which I arrive always puts a smile on my face.

After an hour of riding I begin scouting for potential chai stands and brake when I find one that calls to me. The pleasure I get from that first cup of chai set in the rural Indian countryside well beyond the urban reaches is immeasurable. I sip chai comfortably seated in plastic lawn furniture while the Tuna catches his breath.

When the bottom of my cup signals it’s time to move on the real meat of the day begins. With the bike and driver now warmed up it’s now time to put some kilometers under the tires. Before mounting I usually reach for the familiar left ear plug and begin the day’s soundtrack. There will be a time when my morning routine consists of unfolding a newspaper or packing kids for school, but right now my morning routine is exactly what and where it should be. 

There have been thirteen morning departures since that fateful first ride out of Jaipur bound for Pushkar back on February 4^th and each one is unique in both feeling and scenery. I’m going to use this space to describe the last two and typical life on the road as experienced during my last 48 hours in a breakneck east-west sprint across the green state of Uttar Pradesh.

…

Day 119 (Extraction: Agra)

The bike fully loaded and engine humming nicely, I noted the time and pulled away from my hotel at 7:14am. The streets of Agra were as devoid of human beings as the sky was of clouds. There was no guess work in my route out of town as I retraced my steps north along the west bank of the Yamuna River, Agra Fort towering over me to my left. I just felt it that morning and whatever It is, it hung in the air. Call it a great sense of excitement.

I had viewed the Taj Mahal from almost every conceivable angle I could find. Head on. Up close and personal. From the side. From the other side. From the opposing river bank. From a rooftop café. But it was my last glimpse that took the ribbon. Shortly after joining the four lane northbound road that hugged the Yamuna River I threw my head back and to the right to spot any traffic, but before my eyes could inspect the road they found a holy silhouette outlined by a rising and blinding sun. The sun, rising directly behind the Taj and just over the tree line horizon, gave the iconic structure a ghostly white glow. A moment later three young boys rode up alongside me on a motorbike and eclipsed my view. I pointed to the apparition in the distance and let out a euphoric high pitched “WHOOOOOA” at the top of my lungs. I didn’t care what they or anyone else thought. It was one of those spur of the moment actions fueled by great inspiration and pure adrenalin. An unforgettable natural high and it wasn’t even 7:30am. It was in the air alright.

Random recollections from the road that day…

• Motorbikes are exempt from paying road tolls and so I always get a kick from saluting the uniformed toll guards as I weave around the line of cars. Inevitably they smile and salute back.
• Having downloaded the Into the Wild soundtrack at a friend’s direction I felt very Chris “Alexander Supertramp” McCandless heading east into the rising sun as Society played in my left ear. Good call Wood.
• If the primary traffic concern in Rajasthan were heifers and livestock, the primary concern in Uttar Pradesh would be on-coming vehicles going the wrong way in the wrong lane. Picture this: two lanes of east-bound traffic separated from west-bound traffic by a significant earthen medium. Now picture a massive lorry (i.e. truck) coming at you head on going the wrong direction on the wrong side of the medium. Frustrations are further exacerbated when you see traffic flowing normally on the opposing side of the medium. I’ve encountered this phenomenon dozens of times and still can’t formulate a sensible explanation. Every time I see one of these coming at me in my lane Walter’s road-raged voice leaps into my head: “Really!?!? REALLY!?!”
• Very often I find myself boxed in and surrounded by slow moving, exhaust spewing lorries. Inevitably a gap or window will materialize into which I shoot and pull away from the deafening noise. There is a split second moment after passing the last truck when all the intense menacing noise goes silent and you’re left alone with the hum of your own engine. As crazy as it sounds those as very satisfying moments.
• I’ve seen enough roadkill throughout India to feed the Beverly Hillbillies for years. Uttar Pradesh tragically introduced something new. I counted fourteen canine carcasses over the past 616km. Several of which had literally been turned inside out.
• Either cows are mind numbingly stupid and have no concept of the personal risk they take in wandering the highways of UP or they are brilliant beasts that fully grasp the level of carpe blanch they enjoy in India. After passing one mammoth male comfortably seated smack dab in the fast lane and one female standing on the medium to his right I considered what if the latter is the case and they have conversations like:

“Hey Paula, I feel like being a jerk today and messing with traffic.”

“Go for it Charlie. I’ll be here watching.”

I clearly need more things to think about on the road.

• The means with which the massive movement of people across India takes place is humbling. As I see it there are four buckets into which every traveling Indian falls. The most privileged class find themselves traveling in cars & SUVs. These vehicles are far and away the fewest yet fastest on the road. The next class transport themselves by motorbike. It’s this bucket that would surely draw the largest shock from a western audience. See it’s not uncommon to see the following family riding together on a small 150cc motorbike: father driving…young son seated in front of father with hands on handle bars…mother sitting side-saddle behind father and holding infant child. Not a single helmet between the four. Traveling 40-50km/hr on the highways, any mishap whatsoever would certainly end in tragedy. The next and largest class move by bus. Buses move with complete disregard for all other vehicles and pedestrian safety, and move only slightly slower than cars. The final bucket gets around India by overcrowded motor rickshaws, lorry rooftops, and truck flatbeds. I’ve passed thousands of vehicles over the last twenty-five days and have exchanged looks with thousands of passengers. Sometimes we trade smiles but the majority of the time we trade nothing. Just blank looks and a silent understanding that despite momentarily occupying the same highway at the same time, we couldn’t be living further apart in this world.

It is 616km from Agra to Varanasi meaning an overnight stop was inevitably. After spending time on Google Maps playing out various scenarios I selected the city of Kanpur, 286km from Agra, as the day’s destination. A word on Kanpur. I’ve now traveled what I consider to be extensively throughout Southeast Asia and now India (in addition to Australia and New Zealand back in 2001). And not once during all those days did I ever spend a night in a town that wasn’t at the very least mentioned in a guide book. Not to mean I don’t stray from the well beaten path, but rather the coverage zone for guide books has grown that much more extensive. There are sadly fewer and fewer places on the globe where a review doesn’t exist somewhere for a hotel or restaurant. Kanpur apparently is one of those places however. My Lonely Planet guide said absolutely nothing. Not a word. So when I pulled into the outskirts I did something I hadn’t done before. I found some guys and said the words hotel and sleep and mimed using my hands as a pillow. A few twists and turns later I found myself in a room, on par with that first room back in Mumbai, which will without question go down as one of the worst hotel rooms of my life. I didn’t even need to look at the sheets to know I’d be sleeping in my bag that evening and putting my jacket over the pillow. The walls were dirty and stained and I didn’t want to know why. The air conditioning system pumped stall recycled air until I turned it off. The shower served its purpose but I’ll spare a bathroom description. Oh, and the room was windowless. I find a number of proud and thrilling moments traveling, but this was not one. It did make setting the alarm for 5:45am a no brainer however…

 …

Day 120 (Extraction: Kanpur)

I didn’t even need to wait for the alarm that morning. My internal body clock told me it was time to escape when I awoke up at 5:40am. There was no shower and after a quick packing job I was kick starting the Tuna at 6:00am. The ride from forgettable Kanpur to Varanasi is 330km. I knew the roads would be straight and flat and smooth…which happily meant 40km/hr…which worked out to eight hours of riding time. Splash in the required rest stops (aka Stoppage Time) and you have a nine hour day ahead.

As I had no map for the town of Kanpur, finding my way out and back onto National Highway 2 in the pre-dawn light was a bit of an ordeal. After fifteen minutes of riding and half a dozen “this way” finger points I finally made it to the highway just as the sun was breaching the horizon.

Warning: emotional description ahead. With the bike cranked up to 5^th gear and the sun rising directly in front of me I definitely experienced one of those early morning emotional highs. This one was not the serene-lone-tear-in-the-eye kind but rather the fist-pumping-expletive-shouting kind. It was just so breathtakingly gorgeous and perfect given the motorized means on which I was experiencing it that the magnitude of the moment immediately hit me: I was living and breathing one of those rare moments that I’ll inevitably recreate in my mind and recount to others time and time again throughout my life. And then I did it again, but this time I really knocked the cover off the ball. I let not one, not two, not three, but four or five high-pitched eardrum popping “WHOOOAs” accompanied by a handful of HoF caliber “YEE-HAWs” at the top of my lungs that bushy Sam Elliot would have tipped his hat to. It may sound pretty cheesy but that’s the feeling I got at those moments. Another unforgettable natural high and this time it wasn’t even 7:00am.

Yet more random recollections from the road…

• Not long after dawn an album that accompanied two friends and I on an inaugural road trip across America back in the summer of 2000 came on the box. Sometimes there is no better album to compliment beauty and pavement then Moby’s Play.
• I stopped at the obligatory chai stand before noon for some chow. While shoveling rice into my mouth I couldn’t help but notice a tiny young boy crossing the field behind the stand. I also couldn’t help notice when he dropped his drawers, pooped on the ground, scooped up his waste, and proudly redeposited it in a little mount in front of him. The rice ceased to be appealing.
• Just before noon I passed an old timer riding a brand new shiny Enfield Bullet who would have had trouble counting more than 10 teeth in his mount. I honked as I passed him by and he quickly caught up. No words were exchanged but I think we both felt pretty slick riding side by side on our Bullets through the next two small towns.

 

Situated on the western banks of the Ganges River, Varanasi is one of India’s holiest cities and a pilgrimage site for millions of Hindi. My entrance into Varanasi unseated any previous destination for Most Unforgettable Arrival. Not once did I get out of 1^st gear as I crawled into town. When I finally arrived at a tiny roundabout, recognizable on my map, I stopped to get my bearings. I quickly eyed two towering and bearded Western backpackers lugging heavy bags and rolled over. Moments after asking if they had secured accommodations yet an Indian approached us and set into the usual hotel pitch. We all kind of shrugged our shoulders and set off following this man down the oppressively crowded street. After ten minutes of inching after them in 1^st and drawing stares from every direction we made a right turn and cut into Varanasi’s famous labyrinth of riverfront alleys. So narrow are the alleyways that no car can enter and just barely could I fit my luggage rack through. It was a scene of complete madness and total pleasure. Every pedestrian ducked into doorways and yielded to my bike. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of my tight surroundings as we went deeper and deeper into the dark maze. I already decided to myself that regardless of the hotel’s quality I was staying there since there was no way I could extricate myself from the puzzle I was in.

After securing the bike and making my way to the front desk I learned there was apparently one room left, and after climbing the five flights to room #502 my hotel search and arrival into Varanasi was complete. The corner room was spotless, cozy, and offered one of the prettiest late afternoon views one could ask for after a nine hour day on the bike. And so it was that for $15usd I dropped my bag and settled into my last stop in India…

Utah! Get me…

(If this means nothing to you please help yourself and celebrate the life and work of the late great Pat Swayze with a viewing of Point Break. Thank you.)

Soul of India

I can’t emphasize how great it was to spend time with Meetu’s family in Delhi for three nights. The warm family environment and adorable kids recharged some batteries in serious need. Due to a late departure caused by parking space follies, I pulled out of Meetu’s drive at 8:30am. A solid hour after I would have liked. The extraction from Delhi which followed was pure hell. Add morning gridlock to an already abominable set of traffic conditions, mix in morning haze with piss poor air quality, and you have lovely start to your day.

The 200km to Agra were straight forward in both the literally and figurative sense and about three hours south of Delhi I entered what will be my final state in India: Uttar Pradesh. With a population over 160 million and home to two of India’s must-visit sites, ‘The UP’ is both a blockbuster and a basket case. One of India’s poorest states, the depths of poverty visible from the roadway is startling to say the least.

The topography of UP is Nebraska-flat and the vegetation is Kansas-green. When not momentarily passing through forgettable towns the lush endless greenery makes you feel safe, warm, and comfortable. It wasn’t long after passing into UP that I pulled over and went for the ipod. It felt like a J-Cash type of day and Live from San Quentin quickly found its place on the box. It wasn’t long into his prison set when everything just felt wrong. The music was too loud and the increasing level of blight and hardship unfolding before my eyes begged my full attention and respect. I yanked the lone earplug out and rode the balance of the day completely focused on the surrounding faces and places.

About 30km north of Agra I pulled into one of the three petrol station brands that dot India’s roadways. The Tuna chugs oil like it was a sophomore beer on initiation night and I knew by the dip stick that it was overdue for black gold. I pulled into the station and the entire service crew quickly engulfed me. The head chieftain quickly led me inside to peruse the wall o’ lubricants. (I recognize my decision to include the following makes me look like a complete idiot despite having no significant barring on the story.) There on the wall was an endless supply of legitimate looking engine oil in yellow bottles, each with a car icon on its front. The chieftain was adamant this was the oil I wanted and so like many decisions over here I took this with another leap of faith and belief that these oilmen knew their oil. We topped off the bike, I handed over $6 dollars in rupee, shook hands with the entire crew, and pulled back onto the highway for the final stretch…

Agra. How do I describe Agra? It’s difficult because I want to do it justice more than any other place I’ve visited. See Agra isn’t the prettiest city in India and it doesn’t have the best food or the comfiest guest houses. In fact it’s rather brash and happens to be crawling with overly persistent Indians who don’t know the meaning of No Thank You. Yet I had a response to Agra unlike any positive response I’d had elsewhere. I guess the only way to put it is that until I visited Agra I never felt like I truly visited India. Every country has a beating heart and every country has a living soul. Mumbai and Delhi keep India’s arteries pumping and greet international visitors by rightfully knocking them on their ass. Agra then picks them up, throws its arms around them and reminds them why they came here in the first place. Agra makes you fall in love with India because Agra is its soul.

If you could have pulled me aside in Bangkok back in mid-January and asked me to describe what I thought India would look and feel like I would have said something about filth and color and hustle and blazing suns and mouth-watering food and shoeless child smiling and spirituality and breath-taking beauty and complete shock. Agra checked every box in the most perfect of ways. I had been falling for India since Mumbai but it was Agra that sealed the deal.

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It was mid afternoon with the sun high in the sky when I rolled past the towering red Agra Fort and officially arrived. I had a pretty good idea in which part of the tourist hub I wanted to seek shelter for two nights so I set off in that direction. Before long I took a wrong turn down a narrow cobblestone street overflowing with tiny shoeless children running to and fro completely oblivious to the thundering motorbike inching along towards them in 1^st gear. They were so small I could have rolled over three of them and not been jolted from my seat. And then I saw him. Naked from the waist down and squatting slightly off center of the one lane road was a doughy little Indian boy who couldn’t have been more than three years old. His immobile location near the center of the lane forced me to a crawl to ensure I didn’t run him over. Just after locking eyes with him I saw a stream of brown sludge ooze out his backside into a tiny mount on the street. Complete shock. Naked infants pooping freely in the streets…now this was the India I had pictured in my head!

I finally got my bearings and located my strip of accommodations choices. After checking out the first place I came outside to start the bike and continue on. I kicked the starter and the bike produced a noise I hadn’t heard before, and when the engine did finally come to life it died every time I sat idly in neutral. Uh-oh. This is not good. I essentially had to keep the engine in 1^st gear and the bike moving or it stalled. Panic. Oh this is not good at all. Here I’d enjoyed a brilliant day of worry-free riding and suddenly my future was clouded with what ifs. What if the engine was finally communicating that it’d had enough? My tourist day to follow was quickly starting to look like a Where’s Waldo mechanics hunt.

I quickly recognized I had bigger fish to fry than finding the perfect hotel so I retreated back inside and asked for the overpriced room. When they said it would be ready in thirty minutes I sat down to think. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. What two irregular events had just taken place within the span of an hour? The bike was misbehaving and I’d put in new oil. Bingo. Must have been the wrong oil. I dashed outside, said a prayer, and started him up. 4km later we limped into the Indian Oil petrol station and found a familiar display case containing not just yellow bottles (for car engines) but red bottles (4-stroke motorbikes) and green bottles (2-stroke motorbikes). I grabbed two liters of the correct 4-stroke lube and pushed the bike across the street to the local grease monkey for my second oil change in as many hours. Black sludge out…golden salvation in. The Tuna was back.

After checking in and cleaning up I set out on foot to feed. Not twenty steps out the front door the bicycle rickshaw wallahs started at it. I’ve dealt with these people all over India and my volley to their serve is pretty standard. To whatever service and/or good I’m being offered I politely reply “no thank you” and continue on without breaking stride. 6 out of 10 times the guy continues his pitch and attempts to go stride for stride with 6’1”. Inevitably they lose patience and peel off. The rickshaw wallahs in Agra are an entirely different breed. Since I can’t out-walk their wheels they simply peddle on and on and drone on and on reiterating their original pitch. Apparently in Agra a Western “no thank you” translates to “please sir, continue your pitch.” On two occasions the droning got so tiresome I crossed four lanes of traffic to elude them. I couldn’t help but laugh both times when they cut across oncoming traffic to rejoin me. The persistence and length these men will go to earn $0.10usd is remarkably impressive but sadly indicative of the daily economic struggle facing most Indian males. Hustle.

I love eating on the street. Plan and simple. In the not too distant future I will long for the days of Indian street food, so while I’m still in its streets I’m making every day count. That said perhaps the tastiest piece of chicken I’ve had in India can found in the 10’ x 7’ “Bee-Be-Que” street stand on Agra’s main drag. If you get lost just look for the place where they spell it “chichen.” A half order of tandoori chicHen will set you back 80r (less than $2.00) and have you returning the following day (as I did). The two best meals I’ve had in the last thirty-two days were both on the street (Agra and Chandigarh), both cost less than a one-way NYC subway ticket, and both set new benchmarks in my book for flavor. Mouth-watering food. I slept well that night.

The alarm went off at 5:45am the next morning and despite her reputation I did not shower for this date. I rode the bike through the quiet streets, found her western door, and at 6:45am found myself standing face to face with the world’s undisputed prettiest building.

Standing mesmerized before the awe-inspiring and breath-taking beauty of the Taj Mahal at dawn is an experience that must be lived. It’s one of those global icons that you can see a million times in print but never truly appreciate until you’re standing before it marveling humbly at its immense size, scale, and intricacy.

“The Taj Mahal was built by the Mughal Emperor Shan Jahan in commemoration of his favorite wife, the empress Mumtaz Mahal. Mumtaz died in 1631 at the birth of her 14^th child. The grief-stricken emperor spared no effort in building the tomb in her memory, which is universally acknowledged as one of the most beautiful creations on Earth. After his death in 1666 Shan Jahan was buried in a tomb beside his beloved. Artisans were requisitioned from all over the empire and from central Asia and Iran. While bricks for the internal framework were locally made, white marble for the external surfaces was brought from Makrana in Rajasthan. The building was completed in 1648.”

Lifted directly from a stone tablet at the Taj’s entrance, I hope this satisfies your request Professor Rose: “Also, mix in a nugget or two of historical references b/c I like those…”

It was during my five hours wandering the Taj grounds that I found the color I was expecting in India.

Following a nap that afternoon I headed out for another take at sunset. A popular viewing point is the backside of the Taj as seen from the northern bank of the Yamuna River. The wild ride to this point took me over the river on a converted and comically congested railway bridge before passing through two little villages overflowing with scruffy haired, brightly dressed, smiling shoeless children laughing and playing in the streets.

When I located the river bank I found my spirituality in the strangest of places. After setting up my lens to shoot the changing sunset colors an unexpected visitor come over and stared me down. For what was no more than sixty seconds but felt like an hour I locked eyes with this individual. Neither of us moved and neither so much as blinked. We simply looked into each other in a completely non-threatening way. Not a word was exchanged. Now is when you can laugh, but I honestly felt I shared some indescribable connection with this man. It was like I was looking at myself but I clearly wasn’t. Clearly. It was something strangely special and after he moved on I couldn’t stop looking at him even though he hardly gave me another glance. It was a most brilliant and peculiar experience. I felt something happen there and I’m chalking it up as spirituality.

The day had been an incredible one and one of my best in India, so I guess it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I found this on my ride home…blazing suns…

Delhi Bellie

I’m taking a break from words…

Welcome to Delhi. Buckle thy seatbelt…

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Delhi, so exhausting even the dogs can’t stay on their feet…

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Delhi, leading by example in state of the art security…

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Corporate Ladies of America. Next time that stack of reports gets you down, consider this stack…

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National Ghandi Museum. Delhi’s highlight…

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Four Countries to Delhi

A year and a week ago I redeemed a free plane ticket for President’s Day weekend. El Paso, TX was the outbound and Las Vegas, NV the return. Forty-five minutes after landing in west Texas I was behind the wheel of a rented two-door mustang convertible alongside an old grade school friend. Three nights and 1,200 miles later we had checked off four states, paid homage to my senior thesis topic (New Mexico’s own William H. Bonney), thrown snowballs into the Grand Canyon, gotten lost in Zion National Park, and escaped Vegas without playing a single hand. The real take away from this story is the 1,200 miles. Granted America’s southwest is some of the world’s greatest road-tripping country, 1,200 miles is an un-Godly distance to cover in three and a half days. Sometimes though, in the name of travel and exploration, you just have to put your head down, put foot to the floor, and eat road. My last three days were exactly that. 370 miles may not sound like much, but trust me that 370 miles at an average speed of 18mph is a whole lot of much.

TIBET (Day 161)

McLeod Ganj is a fascinating little mountain town not far below the Himalayan snowline. As I wrote earlier McLeod Ganj is the permanent residence of the Dalai Lama and the exiled Tibetan government. From the number of burgundy-robed Tibetan Buddhist monks wandering the streets and the drastically different facial features worn by every non-tourist you’d be forgiven for thinking you long ago left the Subcontinent. For a day and a half I felt like I’d left India all together and had been curiously transported across the border into Tibet.

February is the off season for travelers so the town was understandably quiet. Quiet and cold. Following a tough full days ride from Amritsar I splurged on one of the nicer places in town (i.e. $20) to ensure a hot shower. The hot water did not disappoint, while it lasted, but the paper thin windows did absolutely nothing to preserve what little heat occupied my room. Layered under four blankets, a sleeping bag, and a long sleeve shirt I had two of my coldest night’s sleeps in years. I can’t imagine what the lesser accommodations were like.

After de-thawing the first morning I played administrative catch-up on Walkabout, tried (shockingly unsuccessfully) to knock on the Lama’s front door, and prepared my internal batteries from the three-day haul to Delhi that would commence the following morning.

The views from McLeod Ganj were a great preview of what was to come…

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SWITZERLAND (Day 162 – 125km)

Until the alarm clock sounded at 6:45am on Friday February 19^th riding a motorbike in India had never felt like a job, but when that corny alarm ringer informed me it was time to emerge from my cocoon under a mountain of blankets to endure a lukewarm shower, repack again, and put on an increasingly gnarly riding suit only to subject my exposed face to three hours of frigid morning temperatures I disliked the entire idea, notion, and concept very very much. It was a new emotion I hadn’t dealt with before. I forced myself to focus because a negative mindset of not wanting to ride is a precursor to trouble. Little did I know however that when I kick-started the engine that morning in the hotel’s garage surrounded by the entire hotel staff (of 4) I would be beginning the greatest day of Indian riding yet.

Each new day on the bike is a different and unique experience because every day the five fundamental variables that define the day’s ride are different: road, bike, mood, company, and environment. Friday got them all right. Working backwards…

The environment represents not only the natural landscape surroundings (i.e. desert, mountain, jungle) but the weather. Friday saw picture perfect blue skies frame Himalayan scenery out of a postcard.

The company represents how crowded the roads are. Sometimes it’s apocalyptically (i.e. Delhi), other times magically empty. I had the mountain roads to myself that Friday.

The mood represents what’s going on in your head. I was once told the best part of riding a motorbike is that “when you’re riding a bike you don’t think about anything other than riding a bike.” There is great truth in that. The required focus kind of limits your mind’s leash to wander. You wander too far and suddenly you’re no longer focusing on the operation at hand: staying alive. That leash however does get longer and looser the less company you have on the road. With empty lanes in both directions and a feeling of great optimism my head couldn’t have been in a better place.

The bike represents the Tuna’s health. When he sounds healthy and the engine isn’t inventing troubling new sounds for me to worry about I ride much easier. The previous stretch from Amritsar to McLeod had been the first time we’d ridden up anything steeper than 30 degrees (Rajasthan is a desert after all). Whether it was the thinning oxygen or the bike being unaccustomed to mountain roads, the Tuna sounded like it had bronchitis by day’s end. The stress I put on the engine that day was nothing I was anxious to repeat. That Friday the engine (and thus my peace of mind) sounded in fine form due in no small part to…

The road is far and away the single most influential and important variable in any day’s enjoyment. Like an episode of SNL mid-season, you never know the road quality you’re going to get over here. Perhaps my biggest frustration with riding in India is the inconsistency in surface quality. The only consistency is the inconsistency. The road might be marble-smooth for 3km for no apparent good reason before it abruptly changes to foxhole-size potholes for 2km before reverting back to marble. It sucks. You can never get comfortable and never let your focus down because around every bend lies a potentially tire bursting booby-trap.

The roads from McLeod to Mandi were the stuff of pure riding fantasy (at least my riding fantasy) for three reasons. First, the roads were freakishly smooth. It was fantastic. Second, the descending mountain roads gave up their elevation through an endless series of S-turns and U-turns that gave Northern California’s Big Sur a good run for its money. Third, the trip from McLeod to Mandi took about 6 hours including stops. For 4 of those hours I was riding downhill. Smooth, curvy, downhill riding in the foothills of the Himalayas: pure joy.

It wasn’t long into Friday’s ride before I started really getting into the turns. Accentuating leans, shifting weight, increasing speed, and using surface area of the tires I previously hadn’t. After one particularly exhilarating S-turn in which the angle of the road’s surface made the experience feel more like taking a corkscrew turn in a bobsled than on a bike, I let out a great yell and didn’t care who heard me. Coming out of that S-turn with the road, the bike, the mood, the company, and the environment all pieced together like a beautiful mosaic, I couldn’t stop giggling and smiling for a good thirty seconds. The best comparison I can draw to the feeling of nailing that turn is striking a golf ball perfectly straight off the tee. As the ball sails off into the distance you’re left with a feeling of total satisfaction. I wasn’t expecting it but I found that same feeling in that mountain turn in northern India. Pretty sure that’ll go down as the moment I fell in love with riding. Sorry Mom.

Mandi is a small town of ten thousand nestled at the confluence of several large rivers. The guide book only listed two hotels in town so I wasn’t expecting much. I certainly wasn’t expecting what I found…

Apparently I picked the climatic seventh and final day of the annual regional fair for my arrival. Classic Indian curveball. Expect one thing and be pleasantly surprised by something entirely different.

Friday in the books. One down, two to go…

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AMERICA (Day 163 – 200km)

When the alarm went off at 6:45am I can’t say I exactly sprung to life but I certainly felt better than the prior morning. Same drill as before: extract self from mountain of blankets, endure hot shower with zero water pressure, repack again, and put on my increasingly gnarly riding suit. Everything was going smoothly until I set up the camera to say a few words before packing and lighting up the Tuna.

The face recognition feature on the camera captured the following picture at 7:25am while I was recording. I was in fine spirits as I introduced the day…

The following picture was captured at 7:46am after recording 21 looong minutes of unsuccessful attempts to kick start what was a flooded engine. One day those 103 failed kicks and me losing my cool should make for some entertaining viewing.

If the previous day’s environment was Switzerland, Saturday morning belonged to West Virginia. Riding out of Mandi, the morning fog hanging over the steel mill-looking town and surrounding valley, one word came to mind: Appalachia.

Not to say it wasn’t attractive, but it wasn’t attractive. For three hours I battled beat up roads and an endless convoy of oversized trucks. It was nothing compared to the previous day’s majesty but knowing that every kilometer under the belt meant one kilometer closer to a laundry machine kept my attitude upbeat. And what better artist to ride shotgun that morning through blue collar country than the blue collar king himself: Bruce Springsteen. Not sure what the locals thought as I rode by murdering the lyrics to Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out. It was a great day on the box. The Boss gave way to Paul Simon’s Graceland, followed by 40oz to Freedom, and a grab bag of Coldplay.

A little before noon, having just climbed umpteen switch backs in 3^rd gear, I arrived at the summit pass of my final mountain range. The decent on the other side would close the door on the Indian Himalayas and introduce the fertile plains of Haryana state. It would be an understatement to say I was ready for flat, straight roads and within no time I was back in the familiar farmland of northern India making up time. For the first time in days I found 5^th gear. It was great.

My destination that night was Chandigarh, the shared capital for both Punjab and Haryana states. A bit of an Indian urban planning experiment, Chandigarh’s architect designed the city on a grid system. My God! What a concept! Lacking any real charm, Chandigarh does own the title for India’s Most Navigable City. Not being a tourist draw the hotel options were bleak. I found the most reputable place in town and slept in what we would classify a strip mall.

Saturday in the books. Two down, one to go…

(You’d think Chandigarh produced nothing but rocket scientists with these options.)

(That’s one merry Punjabi.)

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INDIA (Day 164 – 270km)

When the alarm went off at 6:45am I leapt into action. I was ready to cap this stretch of riding and cross the finish line. I was ready for Delhi. By 7:30am was in 5^th gear and had already peeled a layer of clothing. Everything about the morning told me it was going to be a wonderful day in the saddle, starting with a cup of free chai from the petrol boys in exchange for an autograph.

“To the boys of Indian Petrol, Chandigarh…keep pumping! –Steve O’Neil (USA)”

By 9am I had hooked up with India’s I-95 equivalent and was making tracks towards Delhi. It had been well over a week since I’d ridden in a straight line for hours on end and I was glad to be back. That handful of morning hours on the Tuna turned out to be trip defining. See, back in the mountains I kind of made a pact with myself that if the bike made it to Delhi I would sell it and check off the remaining pieces of India via train. Well, with the Tuna’s engine humming along like a song and the flat smooth morning roads passing under the wheels like a running river I realized I’d have serious regret the moment I boarded that first train or bus. I decided then and there on the open road that the Tuna and I were going to see this little adventure through to the end together.

The ride from Chandigarh to the furthest reaches of Delhi’s northern suburbs took about six hours. When the road sign said 30km I pulled over. It was time. It was time to prep and time to focus. Nothing I had driven in before or even seen on TV could compare to what I was about to find myself in. There was and is only one band that could accompany a ride like the one I had before me. I hit repeat on the double box set, eased the clutch, and merged into traffic…Forty Licks by the Stones blasting in my left ear. Sunglasses? Check. Royal Enfield? Check. Track #1: Street Fighting Man? Check.

Have I mentioned the many perks that come with having Tom O’Neil as an older brother? If not, there are many. One of Tom’s college roommates recently relocated to Delhi with his family to seek (and will find) untold fortunes. For a well spoken, well connected American-born Wharton MBA Indian who happens to be the product of a mechanical engineer father and computer science mother, India is the new land of opportunity. Meetu and his wife were kind enough to host me for three nights. The only thing I had to do was find their home. The previous evening in Chandigarh I mapped out directions to their house from the internet and highlighted the route on my various road maps. In hindsight I would have been better served using those maps to blow my nose.

I had never been scared on the bike until I reached Delhi’s urban boundary. Traffic rules, traffic lanes, and traffic etiquette mean nothing in India to start with. They mean even less in Delhi. This being India’s largest and capital city I thought they might have better enforced a few issues that make driving in other cities challenging. Not a chance. Cows occupying highway shoulders, ox-pulled wagons taking up multiple highway lanes, motorbikes and cars driving the wrong way down highway off-ramps. Just complete unimaginable chaos. When Paint It Black came on I was half convinced I was riding in a movie.

There are no signs that convey “city center this way” or “this road goes south” or “this road is a highway.” It is flying blind and then some and then some more. I got lost immediately upon reaching the first major highway division and quickly landed on secondary streets. Within five minutes I received my first bump in India, a little love tap from an unremorseful motor rickshaw driver. No one yields right of way. The concept simply doesn’t exist. Any intended use for a horn is cancelled out by the never-ending drone of honks. How can one horn stand out and have effect in a sea of horns?

After wasting twenty-five minutes retracing steps I found myself on their beltway equivalent. A beltway with animals and pedestrians that is. I was able to approximate my location on a map and concluded that if I continued counterclockwise on the Ring Road I would eventually find Delhi’s southern side. This plan was quickly complicated when the highway split and split again and again. I made my best calls and eventually found reassurance when my relationship to the sun indicated I was indeed moving south.

Around 4pm I pulled over to recheck my map and approached another stopped biker for directions. He said he was going near my destination and instructed me to follow him. Follow him…From the guy’s loafers and man-purse slung across his body I suspected he was as credible a guide as any. The only problem was keeping up with him. For twenty harrowing minutes I took what I’m considering to be my doctoral level final exam/thesis/dissertation in third world motorbike riding. I had to summon every skill I’d learned to keep up with this guy and to avoid hitting something or being hit. It was complete madness. Every time he’d locate me in his mirror he’d commence another set of evasive maneuvers. When he finally stopped a dozen blocks from my destination I half expected him to hand me a diploma and/or a shot of Royal Stag. I deserved both but would have happily taken the whiskey alone.

Class: Advanced Studies in Indian Motorbike Adventuring

Course #: Moto 502

Professor: O’Neil

With that I turned into the tranquil J-block residential community and breathed a sigh of relief. I found unit 287, killed the engine, turned off the Stones, and rang the bell. I had done it. Sunday in the books. Three down, none to go…

Mailbag

I can monitor how many people visit this site every day and I’m proud to say it’s a flatteringly significant number. For six months and a week I’ve been sharing my experiences and I’m clearly putting something out there that people find interesting because you all keep coming back for more. It’s for that reason I keep writing and strive to produce what I think is quality work. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail, and sometimes I break cables…but I’ll keep plugging along.

I thought I’d throw an idea out there and see what comes of it. I’ve decided to open the mailbox to suggestions, comments, ideas, criticism, etc. Let me know of anything you want or would be interested in hearing me report on. Why not make this interactive?

Drop a line and I’ll see what I can do. Until next time I sincerely thank you all for taking time out of your day to follow this Walkabout.

-SBO
sboneil@yahoo.com

Big Hitter…the Lama

(If this title doesn’t register on your radar go rent Chaddyshack.)

Wednesday the 17th was a very special day for this guy. For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to lay eyes on the Himalayan Mountains. Wednesday finally brought that opportunity. The day began at 6:05am. I remember the time because I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t long after that I settled my room tab and put on my now-customary (and badly in need of a wash) riding suit. Three pairs of socks, a pair of jeans, a pair of long hiking pants, two shirts, and my jacket. I have to tuck my jean cuffs neatly into my socks or else the cold morning air shooting in through my open pant legs would make riding impossibly cold. I definitely feel like going into battle when I don the suit. Throw in a helmet and gloves and I’m ready to roll.

I kick started the bike a hair after 7am. The usually chaotic streets of Amritsar were deserted, save a few small garbage fires in the streets encircled by blanketed men. I was charged up that morning. The anticipation of the mountain roads ahead and putting Punjab behind had me way to giddy for such an early hour. There was a moment there as I leaned into a soft city turn, the full weight of the wet bike (i.e. full tank) and 50 lbs of gear under my control and the engine rhythmically spurting along, that I was perfectly content. A foreigner in a foreign land navigating a quiet city street at dawn on his motorbike. There was just something so perfect about it. Sometimes all the hardship that befalls me in doing what I’m doing is offset by a single momentary flash of brilliance. This was one of those flashes. For whatever reason at that moment PJ’s voice popped into my head as I whispered to myself:…like a gentleman.

I had set my destination that day roughly 200km away in the mountainous neighboring state of Himachal Pradesh. I could have covered 200km in five hours back in Rajasthan but I had zero idea what to expect on the undulating roads of Himachal Pradesh. The morning’s 80km ride to the border was brilliant. The tree lined road was flat and flanked on either side by seemingly endless fields of agriculture. I was pretty much in the zone and the feeling was complimented well by Alicia Keys (thank you MB) and Built to Spill (thank you BL).

It was pretty much business as usually (if there is such a thing while riding a motorbike in India) until I hit the Punjab – Himachal Pradesh border. A massive dry river bed separated the two states and when I stopped there to rest it happened. I dismounted, looked left, and caught the faintest outline of a jagged snow-capped ridgeline way in the horizon. I was taking my first glimpses of the world’s highest mountain range.

With 80km left to ride the going immediately got tough. I started encountering something I hadn’t seen since way back outside Udaipur: curves. The foothills of the Himalayas are both breathtaking and bumpy. One moment you’re on smooth winding roads hugging curves and loving life and the next you’re praying to the God of Tire Punctures for mercy. My previous 40km/hr average had been halved, if not more. This is going to take some time. Within an hour of this pounding I was already rethinking my tentative route through the state. If it was this bad down here at 3,000ft I didn’t really care to find out what it was like at 7,000.

It was roughly 2pm when It finally knocked on the door. The It I’m referring to is Adversity. I have always known that my good times are completely at the mercy of the Silver Tuna’s health. Whenever he feels like tossing me a curve ball I have no choice but to swing. So when I squeezed the clutch lever and there was no resistance I knew Adversity had finally come knocking. A broken clutch cables completely cripples a motorbike and makes it impossible to shift higher than 1st gear. I had never broken a clutch cable before and didn’t know the first thing about replacing one. All I had going for me was a Bullet replacement cable in my bag (or what I thought was a Bullet replacement cable).

In a stroke of pure luck the incident happened while I was passing through a tiny village. I pulled to the side of the road and waved some men over. No one spoke English but they could all grasp my problem. There was no mechanic in town and they directed me to a tire repair shop a click down the road from which I’d come. So I put the bike in neutral and had the men push me with the engine off. When I got up enough speed I kicked into 1st gear and the engine roared to life. I limped in 1st down the road to the tire guy. I showed him my replacement cable and he simply threw his hands in the air. He couldn’t have been less helpful if he were dead. Another man pointed further down the road and said “2km”. I remembered passing through a larger town back that way and limped off again.

I puttered into the tiny village with my eyes darting from side to side in search of anything that resembled a mechanic shop. I crest a hill and was on my way out of town when I spotted a few rusty bikes outside a shop. I figured this was my best bet and pulled in, hit the brakes, and waited for the engine to stall. None of the four 20-year-old-looking boys spoke any English. Why would they? I was in the middle of mountain nowhere. I showed them the clutch and presented my replacement. It quickly became clear that my cable, despite having the words “Bullet replacement clutch cable” printing on its front, was too short to work.

My heart sank. The sun was still high in the sky but I was in a jam. But something happened. When I should have lost it inside and gotten that pit in my stomach, I frankly didn’t feel a thing. Maybe I was too worn out and too tired. Maybe I got Zen. I don’t know. I’ve gotten myself into world class jams the world over. Finding myself on the wrong side of an impassable glacier-feed river in New Zealand with night fast approaching. It worked out. Finding myself abandoned by my own ship in Fort de France, Martinique. It worked out. Finding myself without options and forced to sleep on a bench in Karratha, Western Australia. It worked out. If I’ve learned anything in traveling it’s that eventually everything will work out. The only real variable being time.

What I initially thought could be a multi-day hiccup turned into a piece of magic. The four young fellows wheeled my bike into their shop and the youngest one immediately went to work dismantling my clutch box. He not only had a clutch wire but repaired it beautifully in an hour. When it was over I thanked the crew repeatedly and paid my man handsomely. Whether someone was watching over me or it was simply good luck, it quickly worked out. My placement turned out to be impeccable, as this would have been a very different story had it happened days earlier in the Great Thar Desert.

(My savior is on the right.)

An hour later I took first glimpses of my destination and current whereabouts. 25km up a winding narrow mountain road in the foothills of the Himalayas is McLeod Ganj: home of the Tibetan government in exile and permanent residence of His Holiness and ‘Big Hitter’…the Dali Lama. I found a hotel room and recalled the day’s events into my camera lens as the sun set to the west. Talk about a day. Or better yet just look at what the day left on my face.

No, that’s not eyeliner. It’s black, gritty, road glory: the cheapest and best kind out there.

Pomp, Circumstance & Pakistan

The people of Punjab look, act, and feel as different from the Rajasthani as a Vermont ultra liberal might standing next to a Houston oil baroness. To start with the well maintained, hardcore warrior Raj mustache is replaced by the wildly overgrown mop of beard hair adorning most every male old enough to grown it. Second, Punjab is all about the head dressing. Whereas most Raj men wear nothing on their domes every Punjab male rocks a wicked tight turban, and these babies are wrapped so tightly I don’t understand how men aren’t fainting from circulation loss on every corner. I’ll explain it this way: if I was to pool 100 Americans from fly-over country, gave them crayons and paper, and instructed them to draw an Indian I’m willing to bet the iconic turban-wearing Punjab would come on top. Third, the people’s response to this 6’1” ginger was lukewarm to say the least. On the road from Jalandhar to Amritsar every passing car and bike kind of gave me this look, and given the proximity to Pakistan I wasn’t exactly thrilled by it. The Raj people would smile and wave without hesitation. The Punjabis kind of uncomfortably stare without expression change.

I know I’m painting a wonderful picture of the state, so let me add one more visual. I don’t think they have a name for it (“Punjabi Special” would be fitting), but during the train to Jalandhar I counted six grown men squatting alongside our passing train in broad daylight and takin’ care of business. One actually waved at me.

Amritsar is home to the Golden Temple and it’s my understanding the Golden Temple is one of India’s most holy places. I can’t confirm any of this because I did nothing more than walk by its front entrance. I’m templed out and frankly care more about my bike’s wellbeing than seeing another house of worship. Some people count their visit to the Golden Temple as the highlight of their time in Punjab. I’m counting my visit to Amristar’s Royal Enfield dealership as mine.

My bike’s steering was feeling a bit funny and it had been over 900km since its last decent inspection (not to mention a train journey). I set off the morning of the 16th in search of a Bullet mechanic with a vague recommendation from a shop keeper. He circled the general area for mechanics on my torn out Lonely Planet map and sent me packing. Talk about vague. After about forty-five minutes of knocking on doors and chasing leads a gentleman gave me the best news I could have asked for: “there is an Enfield dealership just down the street.” What!? How is it that the dozen other people I sourced for information neglected to pass this along? India.

Within minutes the Silver Tuna was in the Enfield’s mechanic shop surrounded by a fleet of unsold sexy new models. God, where was this place in Jaipur? Listed on the wall in great detail were all the service jobs (and costs) they could perform. For several hundred dollars I could have had the entire beast completely overhauled. After a few adjustments I thanked the staff and headed back to my hotel in the early afternoon.

(“Beautiful bike, sir. Beautiful mustache as well if I may.”)

As far back as Inle Lake, Myanmar, when Roger and Maaike told me about the India-Pakistan border ceremony, I committed myself to knocking on Pakistan’s door. Exactly 30km west of Amristar is the tiny Indian border town of Attari. I didn’t know what I was going to find there but there was no way in hell I was leaving Punjab without investigating. At 3pm I pulled away from my hotel on my motorbike and headed towards Pakistan. (That was a rewarding and pleasurable sentence to just write). The traffic in Amritsar is simply horrible. In addition to the sea of bikes and cars are peddle rickshaws which further complicate everything. These not only take up half the road but they move dreadfully slow, forcing all motorized vehicles to navigate around them. Without question Amritsar has been some of the toughest city riding yet.

After thirty minutes I was outside the city limits and making time. Making time until the roadwork began. There’s nothing quite like riding on infrastructure-in-progress. Smooth pavement suddenly morphs into fist-size rocks and dusty detours. I hate Indian detours almost as much as spiders.

After an hour of driving into the sinking sun the road terminated at a massive parking lot and sea of vendor shops. I ditched the bike and checked my backpack as instructed by multiple warning signs. With that I made off on foot down the 1km road towards the border alongside a growing crowd of spectators.

When I arrived at the actual border I was directed to a special section in the spectator stands for western tourists where I would watch the events unfold over the next two hours. On either side of the border are stands, with the Indian side being much larger. The atmosphere during the pre-ceremony build up was indescribable. It had all the feel of a rock concert or sporting event. Indian and Paki music blaring on respective sides as both stands slowly filled. Special VIPs being lead to their court-side seats. Tourists, Indian and non-Indian alike, snapping photos of everything. It was awesome. I was smiling the entire time.

(Nothing says ‘stable’ like these two flags.)

Things continued to crescendo until “Jai-Ho” come over the speakers and sent the now-capacity crowd into hysteria. Things were curiously a tad less boisterous on the Paki side. These two shots were taken ten seconds apart. Only 200 meters separated, but a world apart.

INDIA – (”Hey Pakistan, Jai this!”)

PAKISTAN

From my observations I would conclude the average Indian male’s height to be somewhere between 5’5” and 5’9”. This being a population of a billion there are clear to be outliers, and I’m pretty sure the recruitment office for border service found the nine tallest Indians and had them shipped here. These guys were NBA worthy.

(Pre-game stretching)

The ceremony commenced with a beautiful display of international showmanship. At exactly the same time one soldier from each country would begin yelling into a microphone in a low “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh….” Whichever solider lasted the longest before drawing a breath was the victor and sent his country’s crowd into a frenzy (pretty sure Pakistan took every volley). When that was finished the gates were formally opened and the high kicking began. In a beautiful, and clearly choreographed, routine each Indian soldier marched to the border as his Paki counterpart mirrored his every step and move. Pomp and circumstance and then some. It was brilliant.

When that ended each country simultaneously lowered their flag, closed its gate, and called it a day as the sun set over the horizon. With the ceremonies officially concluded the mad rush to have your picture taken in front of the gate began.

I had only turned on my bike’s lone headlight once prior to that evening. The hour ride from the border back to Amristar proved to be one of the most intense yet. Night driving in India…not for the faint of heart. Upon returning home I grabbed a shower, packed, and called it a night…thus concluding my brief courtship with the nation of Pakistan.