Then one day a year or so after arriving on the subcontinent, a big biker named Troy invited me to ride shotgun on his Enfield Machismo (yes, Machismo!) for an excursion through Kashmir and Ladakh. An expat American who does some sort of contract work in Kuwait in order to support his world travels, Troy and I had first met in Delhi and reconnected again in Dharamsala – home to the Dalia Lama. At the time I was cohabitating with a bearded, dreadlocked Italian who had for many years lived in the spiritual traditions of an Indian sadhu (a whole other story). Stefan was headed to Varanassi to continue his tabla studies and I found myself holding an open dance card with plenty more road to cover. It was early July when Troy and I -- joined by Gokarn from Turkey, his Israeli girlfriend Gili, and Irishman Dominic -- embarked on the adventure-riddled month-long motorbike journey through India’s high Himalayas.
Barely 50 kilometers from our starting point Gokarn’s motorcycle hiccupped, coughed and died, the first of many malfunctions that would periodically impede our expedition. An hour later, Troy’s bike suffered a punctured tire. Soon after, two stranded Israeli bikers required the skills of our resident mechanics. I was quickly being introduced to The Enfield Experience…
Circumnavigating omnipresent military convoys, eating dust for breakfast and exhaust fumes for lunch, we were consistently covered in grime as we needled our way over the world’s highest motorable road and flew past Drass, the second coldest inhabited place on earth (minus 60 Celsius in January 1995). Variously we donned or removed layers of clothing as the frigid air pierced or the sun melted our epidermis but not the snow glazing the adjacent mountains. How to describe the sensation of sitting atop a monster machine and being able to touch the icy veneer of a Himalayan hillside? No barriers, no windscreen, no division between nature and (wo)man. How to describe this utterly liberating, absolutely divine sensation as I sat perched on my passenger seat, two rucksacks tethered to either side of the bike, other than to say that The Enfield Experience is an unrivaled travel experience.
The Enfield -- formerly an English bike -- is India’s inferior version of a Harley Davidson. Big and imposing, the screaming engine is actually subterfuge for a notoriously unreliable motorcycle. But that doesn’t discourage the throngs of tourists --including a healthy minority of women -- who hammer them into oblivion as they cut a swathe across India, the ubiquitous foreigner-manned two-wheelers littering the landscape like mosquitoes on a reconnaissance mission.
During the trip I was introduced to Biker Etiquette. You stop for other bikers in distress. You often invite a lone biker to join your pack. You serve as a message center for riders who lost their flock. You always wave to another Enfield and often share a roadside chai. There exists a camaraderie and sense of privilege amongst the Enfield crowd.
After spending our initial exhausted night in Udhampur we hit the road at dawn, passing the first of many checkpoints as we approached the 3 km Jawahar Tunnel (reputedly the longest tunnel in Asia) which divides Jammu and Kashmir. Chaos ensued upon our arrival in Srinigar, Kashmir’s capital, myriad touts smelling potential customers like bloodhounds tracking a fox. Srinigar is famous for its houseboats fringing the city’s two lakes. But with the tourist industry waning due to Kashmir’s political problems, the sight of five foreigners -- disheveled as we were -- provoked an onslaught of forceful sales pitches. Eventually directed to our pre-booked houseboat on Nageen Lake, serenity prevailed until the next morning when a shawl hawker infiltrated our parlor, his wares strewn about the floor. Renowned for their tenacious sales tactics, the isolation of a floating lair didn’t deter the determined Kashmiri vendors.
The old city of Srinigar is also famous (infamous?) for ostensibly housing Jesus’ tomb, which we visited one hazy morning. It is believed that Jesus spent much of his youth and later years here and that he died and was buried in Srinigar. A book called “Jesus Lived in India” by Holger Kersten endorses this theory, as do several others that state Christ survived the crucifixion and traveled widely in the Far East, absorbing Eastern teachings (eventually eliminated from the Bible) before leading a happy family life in the Kashmiri Valley where Mary died.
Proceeding to Kargil via Zoji La Pass (3529 meters), we planned to visit the remote Zanskar Valley. Our attempts thwarted by impassable mudslides and untenable river crossings, we redirected to Mulbeck, home to an ancient stone carving of a future Buddha and usually a quick pit stop en route to Leh. But again, a mudslide prevented us from advancing. The following day we traversed the 4100 meter Fatu La Pass to Lamiyuru, the site of India’s oldest monastery, having clearly segued from Kashmir’s Muslim traditions to Ladakh’s Buddhist culture.
A mountain outpost boasting unique Tibetan and Ladakhi customs -- quite different from other regions in India -- Leh has also evolved into a tourist enclave featuring a range of amenities catering to the needs of foreigners. Humble guest houses and higher end hotels pepper the hillsides, sometimes tucked inconspicuously amidst the foliage. Bistros provide “western” fare and souvenir shops and outdoor markets offer up local crafts and traditional jewelry. But off the beaten tourist track, local life and native rituals persist.
In a small room discreetly situated in a small alley in the middle of town, the resident oracle wields her magic for several hours each morning. Few foreign visitors know of her existence and both times I attended her sessions the room was packed with locals in need of physical, emotional or spiritual healing. As I had been ill for several months and neither traditional nor ayurvedic medicine allayed my symptoms, I was open to the possibilities promised by a faith healer. A trance-inducing ceremony involving incense and chanting prepared the oracle for her work. And although I didn’t understand a word being said it was clear that the locals believed in her abilities as she detected and ostensibly alleviated their suffering. I watched in awe as this mysterious old woman literally sucked poison from each body.
Then it was my turn. As one person gently nudged me to the forefront of the circle, the oracle lifted my blouse and -- unprompted --quickly identified my affliction. Placing her mouth -- and later a thin copper tube -- on my stomach, she sucked and spit, sucked and spit. And then she was done. A friend who witnessed the account incredulously reported that she had extricated a large amount of green bile from my body. Was it a trick? I don’t know. But I don’t think so for from that moment on I was no longer ill. My appetite immediately returned and the malady which had plagued me for so long permanently vanished. Rendered a believer in the unknown, I don’t need to comprehend how or why it worked. I just believe it did -- and does.
After a few days enjoying the distinctive beauty of Leh our Enfield crew prepared for a jaunt to the fabled Nubra Valley via the Khardung La Pass, the highest motorable road in the world at 5604 meters. Nubra Valley boasts a most strange and remarkable terrain with incongruous sand dunes enveloping tall Himalayan peaks. Surreal and beautiful in a stark, mystical sort of way – a cosmic cap to my previous oracle encounter.
No petrol stations exist between Leh and Nubra so the guys had packed extra fuel for the return trip. But inexplicably, 27 kms from Leh, Troy’s bike sputtered and stalled. Out of gas. In an extraordinary feat befitting this extraordinary journey, our Enfield Machismo coasted the remaining downhill course and delivered us safely to the petrol stations and comforts of Leh.
By Suzan Crane -- Global Gypsy Girl
posted by alanl98
They sell Enfields in the US, too. They're pretty inexpensive, but not really fast enough for my commute along I-10.
Write in Guestbook