Two for the Road, page 23
We are called to the dining tables at 8 p.m. Dinner is another sumptuous Rajasthani feast. And just in case we are feeling the chill of the night air, the staff bring in braziers filled with coals from the fire and put one next to each table.
When it is time to go to bed we are given large torches. Once the guests stop reading, the generator is turned off so we are not disturbed by its low hum. Our bed has been turned down. I can’t find the T-shirt I left on the bed, then find it wrapped around the hotwater bottle that is in the bed to take the chill off the sheets. Luxury …
We are advised to leave our blinds up to enjoy the dawn. About 6.15 the sky is light, but there is no sunrise to speak of. We are a little disappointed and turn over to snooze again. At about 7.15 the sun has risen – a huge red ball catches my eye. It is a wonderful sunrise over the distant hills beyond the lake. What a way to begin the day. At 8 o’clock our morning tea arrives. It is a joy that we have another day of such comfort ahead of us.
After lunch, we visit the local village. We are asked not to give the villagers money or gifts, as they are paid well to work at the resort and for their produce. They still make their own butter and sesame oil and spin goat’s wool into yarn.
The silversmith makes exquisite jewellery and determines the price by weighing the silver on an ancient set of hand-held scales. It is a journey back in time.
Over the centuries these people have had to deal with invaders. The Mogul invaders came to Rajasthan and took the best-looking women. Today the village women still cover their faces when strangers visit!
Back on the road, we are back into the madness. We have travelled only a little more than 200 km and have passed seven truck accidents – rollovers and collisions. Brian does some trick riding to avoid a couple of head-ons of our own, as trucks bear down on us without any intention of moving over.
The Hotel Madhuban in Jaipur is another former royal residence run by a member of the maharana’s family. There are photos of the royal family in the halls and sitting rooms. We feel as though we are visiting the family rather than staying in a hotel.
Mr Singh, a tour guide, takes us on a tour of Jaipur and its spectacular Amber Fort, the sixteenth-century palace of the Maharajah Singh (no relation to our guide!). The fort is a maze of corridors and stairways, marble columns and graffiti. Many of the small rooms have been used on more than one occasion as a toilet. The Indians’ lack of respect for their historical sites never ceases to amaze me. All that is forgotten when we get to Sukh Niwas or the Hall of Pleasure, pleasant gardens in the central courtyard with fountains and waterfalls. One pond runs through a room inside the fort to keep it cool during the sweltering summer heat.
The entrance to the maharana’s private apartments is decorated with incredible inlaid panels, mirrored tiles and exquisite stained-glass panels with delicate flower etchings in vibrant colours. Most of the semiprecious stones have been looted over the years, but restoration work is under way. One of the maharanas had a passion for astronomy. The paraphernalia he used to study the stars and planets look like massive sculptures or rides from a way-out theme park.
On our way out of town we stop at Jal Mahal, a water palace set in the middle of a lake. It is quite beautiful, even though the water is so polluted you could probably walk across it to get to the palace.
We make good time on the road to Delhi until Brian notices the back tyre isn’t holding the road as well as it should. Sure enough, we have a flat tyre. We can’t really complain, considering this is the tyre we had repaired in Islamabad. It won’t take another patch so we will have to find a tyre in Delhi.
We have a contact, Arun Maddan, and he assures Brian he can get a tyre. He offers to send someone to us to take the wheel, but Brian doesn’t like that idea, so we remove the rear wheel ourselves and take a rickshaw to Arun’s workshop. It is in the heart of the motorbike area of town, around the corner from the tip-driven Hotel City Castle. Arun isn’t there, so while we wait we talk to his father, Sohan, who tells us about the family’s main business – the restoration of 30-year-old Royal Enfield motorcycles. I roll my eyes. I know what is coming. Brian is fascinated by the idea of the ultimate Indian souvenir: a Royal Enfield of his very own.
Brian: I’m interested, all right! I’ve been fascinated by the old Enfields for years as they have a magical appeal. One problem, though, is that they are so unreliable. Sohan shows me a 350cc that is ready to be shipped to a client in England and a near-complete 500cc. I am impressed with the workmanship.
Arun arrives, has a look at the tyre and tells me they will be able to find one. He comes up with a 130/70 17-inch Metzeler. I’m sure it is old stock, but it will have to do.
Arun says that they do the ‘Egli’ conversion on vintage bikes to improve performance and reliability. Franz Egli is a great modifier of motorcycles from Europe and offers modifications to frames and engines to get the most out of machines. His company recently turned its attention to the Indian-manufactured Royal Enfields and I have read good reports about these in English motorcycle magazines.
Arun tells me that their most successful bike is the 350cc. They rebore the cylinder to make it 535cc. Next, they install a more powerful oil pump and re-route the external oil lines to the head to ensure the exhaust valve gets first use of the cooler oil. The modified bike puts out around 28 bhp (the BMW puts out 70) through the standard four-speed gearbox (of course, the lever is mounted on the right-hand side and has a one-down three-up pattern). They convert the electrics to 12 volts and have a disc-brake front-end conversion if you want it. They are experimenting with an aluminium cylinder to solve the overheating problems of running an air-cooled iron barrel.
Arun takes us to his warehouse, where he has about 100 bikes in various states of repair. Some old Piaggio scooters from the 1950s and ’60s will be shipped to Brisbane. There is a Grey 535 conversion ready to go to the USA and the workers take it out onto the street for me to test-ride. I am surprised at the lowdown grunt this little bike puts out. The clutch action is easy, and the engine is responsive and feels like it will rev to its 5750 red line easily. The gearbox is slow but this is a 35-year-old bike. The sound out of the traditional exhaust is lovely to the ear. When I return to the workshop, I find the workers standing outside – they were wondering if I was going to come back! Truth is, I got lost (that’s easy in Delhi) and I stopped the bike to see if I could start it, which took me a while.
Shirley: I have no problem with Brian getting an Enfield. It will make any further purchases of mine pale into insignificance. Now I can shop till I drop in Nepal with an entirely clear conscience!
Arun promises to have the wheel to us by lunchtime. In typical Indian form, he arrives at four in the afternoon. Over tea in the garden, we do the deal and buy a 1966, 535 Enfield Bullet. It will be racing green with black seats and matching black saddle bags.
When we finally get to the Nepali border it is closed, but only for an hour and just to motor traffic. Nepalis and Indians are walking across at will. We stand with the local border patrol, discussing the usual topics: the cost of the bike and the cricket scores. When the border opens, one of the soldiers whispers some advice: ‘Don’t pay anyone anything.’ It’s good advice. We’ve heard many stories of the Indians’ love of baksheesh but haven’t been asked for any bribes yet.
A slippery mud track leads to the Indian immigration office, where we fill in our forms and have our names checked in huge ledgers that seem to be the backbone of officialdom in this part of the world. At customs Brian makes a grand entrance by breaking one of the chairs. It gets a big laugh from all the officials and probably gives them something to talk about for days to come.
The muddy track takes us through a shantytown selling snack foods and music cassettes, of all things. After passing through a final checkpoint, where our names are written in one more ledger, we head into Nepal.
THIRTEEN
INDIA
23 January – 16 February 2004
Shirley: Keen to avoid the horrendous Indian roads, we cross into Nepal in the far west of the country at Mahendranagar. Around 20 young soldiers watch us ride past without interest. We are warned that this part of Nepal is Maoist territory. Nepal is in the grips of a civil war, with Maoists fighting against the monarchy and the army. A ceasefire collapsed a few months ago and the death toll continues to grow. From all reports, the Maoists don’t bother the tourists but do encourage donations to their fighting fund if they meet you on the track. They even hand out receipts to show that you have donated to the cause. If you meet more of these freedom fighters, you just show them your receipt and then don’t need to give another donation. We are not at all concerned by these reports. We are not trekking and shouldn’t have any problems, but the same can’t be said for people travelling through Nepal by public transport.
While we are having breakfast at the hotel in Mahendranagar, we are intrigued to see the army pull a public bus over. All the passengers get off and walk through a checkpoint with their luggage. Some of the soldiers check paperwork and search luggage while their comrades in arms search the bus. It is a long process.
When Brian and I come up to similar checks on the highway, we are waved through. The authorities are keen not to disrupt the tourist industry. Because of safety fears, some people have stopped visiting and that can only harm the locals.
The difference between India and Nepal is striking. Roads in Nepal are better. There is very little traffic and the countryside is lush and green. The villages are neat and tidy and there isn’t the sea of empty plastic bottles that India seems to be drowning under. The road east is surprisingly good, apart from the odd pothole large enough to consume the bike. Luckily, Brian is on his mettle this morning.
We head to Royal Bardia National Park. We’ve been told the road deteriorates a bit when you leave the highway. That is a real understatement once we have crossed the Chisopani suspension bridge. This is a modern monument to international aid that was built by the Japanese with funding from the World Bank, and seems incredibly out of place. With its towering suspension it looks like it should have been built on a modern freeway.
The road is very muddy and bumpy. We are only on it for a couple of kilometres when we come to a river crossing, and it is a beauty. The river is about 25 m wide where the road disappears into it. It comes out at the other side. It is really hard to tell just how deep the water is. Brian has the perfect solution to gauging the water level: he gets me to walk across the river! The water is pretty deep. It comes over the top of my boots and runs inside. Brian mounts up and goes for it, and gets across with no trouble at all. Now we just have to pray that there won’t be any rain. If the river rises and the track gets muddier, getting out of the national park could be a problem.
The roads go from hard-packed gravel to mud and slush and back again. As we ride through small villages, children run out of houses yelling ‘Bye, bye!’ They seem to think this is a greeting. There are naked children being washed in the creek and women are doing their laundry, smashing their clothes on rocks. It is a lovely scene.
The Bardia Jungle Cottages are rustic, to say the least. The floor in ours is hard-packed dirt. There is no glass in the windows and no running hot water. We can get a bucket of hot water if we give the staff an hour’s notice. But the rooms are clean, as is the bedding, and the beds have enormous doonas. For less than $10 a night, we can’t complain. The accommodation staff double as park guides. Prem and Indra will take us for a day-long walk through the jungle park tomorrow.
Before we settle for the night they tell us to shift the bike because they wouldn’t like to see it damaged when the local rhinoceros visits the camp. They are not sure if the rhino would actually try to mate with the bike, but it’s not worth the risk. We think this is fanciful. As if a rhinoceros would come into the camp. Brian shifts the bike just to humour our hosts.
While we are having dinner, the dogs start barking. We have a visitor. Sure enough, an enormous female rhino wanders through the camp. Indra grabs a torch and we follow the unwanted guest as she wanders around the cottages. They reckon she weighs 300 kg. She ignores us and ignores the barking dog. She even ignores the wall at the back of the cottages, pushing it over to get into a field. It is amazing. We don’t need to go to the national park – it comes to us.
The sun is warm, but once it sets the temperature plummets. After dinner I am determined to have a shower with a bucket of hot water in our ice-cold bathroom. When the hot water runs over my body, it’s lovely. While I fill the jug again, I freeze. The Bardia Jungle Cottages are definitely a location for summer and not set up for the cold Nepali nights.
Early morning is the best time to visit the national park. Our guidebook and commonsense say that walking into a jungle that is known to have rhinos, tigers and wild elephants is a rather foolhardy venture, but it sounds like a wonderful experience. This morning, the area is shrouded in fog. It’s cold and misty in the dining room! Breakfast is a little late because the cook has slept in, but he throws together some terrific banana pancakes and sandwiches for our picnic in the jungle.
Prem and Indra arrive armed with long bamboo poles and present us with one each. I can’t help thinking that a gun would be a bit more useful than a stick against a wild animal. The safety briefing doesn’t lessen our apprehension: ‘Don’t turn your back on the tigers. If you see tigers, just stare at them and make a lot of noise. If you see an elephant, run like crazy. If you see a rhino, climb a tree, if there is one nearby. If not, find something big to stand behind.’
I look across at Brian and wonder if he would be big enough to hide behind. I don’t have to speak. He knows what I am thinking and doesn’t seem to appreciate it. Prem assures us that there shouldn’t be any problems unless we have a chance encounter with an animal that neither the animal nor we were expecting.
Armed with our sticks and a lot of hope, we start down a track that disappears into the heavy fog. Our first sighting is of a spotted deer. They proliferate here as they did in Kanha. And, of course, we see monkeys – langur monkeys at first and then rhesus monkeys. We plod along a bit further without meeting any animals. It must be too cold for them. The birds are abundant – pied hornbills, eagles, forest tits, kingfishers, peacocks and, the most wonderful sight, woodpeckers. We hear them tapping away on trees before we see them.
As the sun breaks through, Prem thinks the animals will come out onto the riverbank to enjoy the sunshine after the cold night air. No such luck. The only large animals we see are domestic elephants out for a morning walk with their mahouts.
Prem starts tracking a female rhino and her baby. We walk through grasses one and a half metres high – I’m just about disappearing from view. Now I think it is ridiculous to be searching for an animal that won’t be happy about being found, particularly when we are armed only with sticks. The rhino is elusive, as is the tigress and her four cubs. Everyone but the deer and monkeys are keeping a low profile today.
Just when we give up hope of seeing anything interesting, there is a noise on the other side of the river. To my untrained ears, it sounds like a gunshot, a loud crack. With trousers rolled up, we wade across the river and go in search of the culprit making all that noise – a wild elephant ripping branches off trees.
We follow the sound through the bushes and come onto a track. The elephant is on the other side of it and should cross in front of us. We wait and wait. The whole time we can hear the elephant having a lovely time grazing in the jungle. Prem becomes concerned that if the elephant crosses the track and sees us, he might charge, so he signals us to move back and around to the other side of the animal. We can still hear the cracking of more trees and branches and even see the leaves waving in the breeze from the force of the elephant’s munching, but we can’t see the elephant.
It is getting late, and we have a good hour’s walk back to the park gate and have to leave before nightfall. Just as we are about to give up, he comes into view: a colossal bull elephant. From 20 m away, we can see his back, his head and ears. He continues to eat, oblivious to our presence – for a few minutes. Then he senses that we are nearby. He turns and runs. For such a big animal, he has incredible speed. Thank goodness he chose to run away from us and not towards us. The experience has been terrifying and wonderful.
There is no fog the following morning as we leave the park and the track is a bit dryer. The small wooden bridges over the creek are slippery, though, and our new back tyre isn’t that good. As the bike mounts the bridge, the back tyre gives way and we do a very stylish 180-degree turn. We are lucky we didn’t spin off into the stream. With the help of a bemused local, Brian manages to get the bike upright and off the bridge. We assess the damage: bike – check; Shirl – check; Brian – bruised shin and ego, but both will recover.
The lack of rain has seen the river level drop and we have no problem getting across. I still have to walk, just in case Brian drops the bike. This time the water doesn’t seep over the top of my boots. Just as well, really. My socks have only just dried from the drenching on the way over.
We need cash and in Nepalganj in central southern Nepal there are no ATMs, so I have to go into the bank armed with credit card and passport. Brian waits across the road with the bike. It is a long and slow process. I have to meet the manager. He introduces me to his assistant, who takes my passport to photocopy it. The manager then gets me to fill in the form and sign it. Nothing is done in a rush.
When I finally get the cash I go outside and can’t find Brian. There is no sign of him at all. Then he appears, riding up the street. He’s not happy. The local police told him to move on because he was creating a traffic hazard – the crowd around the bike was spilling onto the roadway and no-one could get through.
