Everyday in India is an adventure. There is always something bizarre around every corner that makes me stop in amazement, wonder, or horror. It is an intriguing place to visit due to its cultural, spiritual and natural diversity. My adventures in India took on a whole new level once I bought the pink stallion, Chibuku Gopa. Every time I kick start the engine on the poorly made machine and the 350cc engine turns over with a roar, I know my day will take on a new dimension; a dimension that I have little control over. As I have repeatedly tried to depict, the traffic in this county is crazy with few laws restricting any form of driving. Putting aside the nomadic cows on the road, the monkeys on the curb darting in and out of traffic whenever they spot a forgotten morsel, and the hot summer heat turning the poorly tarred patchwork holding the roads together into slippery black goo, there is only one rule on the road, Might is Right…as long as you use your horn. Blow Horn! This warning is plastered on the back of every truck and for good reason. The art of using the horn is perfected in India with different chimes or rhythms signifying a passing car, road rage or just hello. It is a form of communication on the roads making your ears just as important as your eyes while driving. Mastering the horn is essential to surviving on the Indian roads.
Another form of communication is the head wobble. Whenever you pass someone on the street or drive past them on the bike, there is no hand gesture such as a wave that is customary in the States. Instead, a little nod of the head to the side with a smile does the trick. The head wobble is even used when asking directions, ordering food, or just saying hello. The wobble can take on many different variations meaning just as many different frustrating possibilities. Whenever I am lost on my bike and ask for directions, the response I usually get is in the form of a head wobble; right, up, down, left with a twist back up. What the hell is that supposed to mean? My first response, but I have learned to take the first direction of the wobble until I find another man to head me in another direction with his initial wobble. Somehow, I find my way through the maze of street vendors, beggars and animals using head wobble directions. Like I said, every ride on the bike is an adventure, even the short ones.
I am still traveling with the same group of travelers I met at the bike shop in Delhi. All four of the original group are English; Anton, Giles, James and Ben #2. It is a great group that has grown since then with the addition of an Israeli and a Canadian, Noam and Ty. It is more fun traveling in larger groups but more importantly it is a lot safer. There have been numerous breakdowns, close-calls and even a two bike wreck along the way but every situation is resolved much easier with a large group.
One day we decided to take a ride to a village near Manali. We set off around mid day with no real idea where we were going. About thirty minutes into the ride down the winding country roads, we came across two Buddist monks. I made eye contact with one when he gave me a kind head wobble. I took it as a sign that he wanted a ride. I stopped, put one monk on my bike and the other with Giles. The monks were filled with giddy excitement as we sped around turns and over humps getting a weightless feeling at times. They loved it until Giles’ monk lost his hat. We all stopped while Giles turned around to retrieve the monk’s fallen hat. Everything would have been fine except for the monk’s excitement to get back on the road turned disastrous. During the retrieval mission, Giles’ bike stalled out. He was in the process of kick starting it when the anxious monk jumped onboard. Giles did not have enough control to support the weight of the bike and the monk so down they went. They were like dominoes falling one after another. The monk fell first, then the bike and finally Giles. Gas was pouring out of the bike so Giles lifted it up halfway until he realized the monk had a wound on his head. Down went the bike again as he rushed to his aid. Then came the sound of a horn from around the corner signaling a speeding bus was on the way. Down went the monk as Giles then saved his bike from being run over. It was give the ordeal. In the end, the monk, the bike and Giles survived the incident and a crowd of Indian onlookers, my monk and even myself got a good laugh out of the show.
The stories are endless once perched on our poorly made machines. From hitting homeless men wandering the dimly lit night streets (on accident), fording rivers when the roads suddenly disappear, stopping at roadside weddings to be invited in as a honorary guest, drawing a crowd of onlookers with each stop, flat tires, new pistons, worn-out brake pads, broken nuts, over tightened bolts, blown seals… the list never ends. I feel like I am in a Seinfeld episode constantly trying to find a trustworthy mechanic that is not going to rip me off. Once finding a ‘Tony’ (Seinfeld’s mechanic), I shower him with Cokes, cookies, and compliments in a shallow attempt to make him take extra special care of my bike at half the price. It is almost as hard as finding a burger in this vegetarian land. It is a labor of love because my bike gives me the freedom to visit small villages well off the tourist radar and see the Indian culture with minimal tourist exposure to the Hummus Trail.
The mainstream traveler’s route from Goa north into the mountains is often referred to as the Hummus Trail due to the large number of Israelis traveling within India. There are so many Israelis traveling in India that Israeli Idol, their version of American Idol, held auditions in Dharamsala just last week. I tried to audition but my Hebrew is a little rusty at the moment. Israeli independence day is nearing which promises to be a good time as well. For me, I like most of the travelers I meet and have re-named the Hummus Trail to the Shak Shuka Trail because I am in love with the Israeli breakfast dish.
