Mahayana and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenence

“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn't any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it's right. If it disturbs you it's wrong, until either the machine or your mind is changed.”  -Robert M. Pirsig, from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Me and Solivagant, doing what we do best.

“Master, how do you fix a motorcycle without the proper tools?”

“Become one with the bike, young apprentice.”

The national highway of Bhutan is a single lane road in shocking disrepair. I’ve seen wider, and better paved alleyways back in the US. At a hairpin turn on that highway, just south of here, there is a dusty lot with a long shack made of corrugated iron and wood scraps. Like most edifices in these Himalayan foothills, its position is precarious. A strong wind or slight shift in the subsoil could send it careening down the steep mountainside. The building is both a garage and a food stall. You can get your alignment done and order up a plate of momos at the same time. At the back of the lot there is an awning and a concrete ditch that cars straddle for oil changes. Under the awning there are tools scattered about, various fluid stains on the concrete floor, and an air compressor that randomly roars to life with a deafening bellow.

The national "highway" following the river.

When I pulled Solivagant up to the shack, I found two men tinkering with an old van in serious disrepair. They clanked and banged on some of the metal, efforts more in line with the formation of a ramshackle percussion group than with getting the van working again. The clangs resurrected advice I had heard from a colleague when I told him I needed to take my motorcycle to the shop: “It’s all trial and error with our mechanics. They haven’t been formally trained. Each car they get is like a cadaver; they figure out how it works by pulling it apart. If you’re lucky they’ll actually be able to put it back together again.” As if that wasn’t enough, he added, “Oh, and they hardly ever work on motorcycles. We’ll see if you can even ride out of there once they’re through.”

There was no front desk inside the shack, no customer service sign. I stepped back outside and into the high altitude sun and tried to discern who worked there from those waiting for a food order and those that were just standing around because they didn’t have much else to do. My first assumption was to ask the guys tinkering with the van, but before I could walk up to them, another man came up to me with an eager-to-speak-English smile and asked, “Some problem with your bike, sir?”

“Yes, sir. The handbrake’s pistons are stuck, the brake fluid is low, and I need to replace the brake pads.”

“You have the new brake pads, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you buy them? There is no place here that sells them.”

“I ordered them online from China. They took a month to get here.”

“Oh, I see,” he replied, sitting down on a bench just behind us. He clearly had no intention of taking a closer look at the bike.

“Do you work here, sir?”

“No, sir. Just getting an oil change for my Bolero.”

“Who does work here?”

The man called over to a young, stocky twenty-something with scarred, disfigured tattoos that were likely etched with a needle and ballpoint pen. He came up to me, acknowledged my presence with a nod, and I handed over the handbrake system to him like it was some automata’s black brain with its spinal cord still attached. My school had the wrenches to take that part off myself, but they didn’t have the right tools to finish the job. I showed the mechanic the worn pads and gave him the new ones and he seemed confident when he took the whole kit under the awning to get to work.

Curious to see if my colleague’s predictions were true, I followed the mechanic, crouched down on my haunches as the locals do, and watched him work. Within two minutes he was hammering at an Allen bolt with a flathead screwdriver. With one blow the screwdriver slipped and the end stabbed the mechanic at the base of his middle finger. He cringed for enough time to let the blood begin to flow and drip onto the short, iron workbench. When the pain subsided, he set to hammering again. The blood continued to flow over his hand with every movement. To the mechanic, it must have been an everyday occurrence. He ignored the wound and kept at the Allen bolt. His dark, calloused skin, already oil stained, began to look like a macabre Pollock painting done in black, ochre and crimson.

“No Allen wrench?” I asked.

“No.”

I nodded. He gave the bolt a few more half-hearted attempts, but gave up soon after and walked over to the driver that I had originally talked to, who translated the mechanic’s message to me.

“Come back tomorrow in the morning. He’ll have an Allen wrench then.”

The next morning was all clear Himalayan sky. I walked down the highway, enjoying the warm sun and the view of the villages on the mountainsides. When I arrived at the shop, again I went over to the workbench and sat on my haunches among the mechanic and two others who were observing his work intently. The audience seemed to have no connection to the mechanic, which happens a lot out here in eastern Bhutan. If someone is doing anything remotely interesting—fixing a handbrake, cutting wood, erecting a fence, giving a dog a bath—then a group will gather just to watch the show.

The mechanic had acquired an Allen wrench in that magical Bhutanese way—wait long enough and material needs will somehow materialize. (That only works with needs though. Wants will only come about with extensive effort.) His finger was bandaged, a good thing because he was pouring brake fluid haphazardly into the disk brake caliper and it was spilling all over him, a fact that I’m sure he found trivial. Having replaced the brake pads, he was now attempting to change the brake fluid and bleed the system. When there was no pressure, he unscrewed the hose that dripped with the remnants of old brake fluid and, to check if it was clear, he put the end of the hose into his mouth, the brake fluid dripping and leaking onto his lips, and he blew. He repeated this several times, ostensibly unaffected by the taste. Once he was convinced that the problem wasn’t with the hose, he stopped, hocked up an oily pink sputum, and went back to dripping oil into the caliper.

Another short man in a leather jacket came by and squatted down beside us. Now we were four, all surrounding the front brake, seeing if the mechanic could figure out the repair. The man in the leather jacket began speaking Tsangla, the language of the Scharchops. Intermixed with his explanation were words I could grasp: pistons, master cylinder, pressure. The man opened the master cylinder, saw that it was empty and berated the mechanic. I discerned then that my mechanic was only an apprentice, and now the master had arrived.

I was relieved. With the master there the brake would surely be fixed. But the confidence I had in him faded as soon as I saw that he too took the brake hose, put it into his mouth as casually as you would a straw from a chocolate shake, and blew air through it. He didn’t even spit the brake fluid out afterwards. He simply went on giving instructions to his apprentice.

In another half an hour, there was some semblance of a working brake. Brake fluid was leaking all over the wheel and was sprayed over the dash and gauges, but the brake, somehow, worked. The master wiped off the excess fluid, handed me the key, and said in clear English, “You take it for a test drive.”

Though it looked rough, and some fluid still leaked, it worked well enough. They had done as much as they could, enough to offer me some satisfaction. At least the bike was safely rideable—for now—and I could use it again.

I pulled back into the lot and asked how much I owed. After a bloody finger, ingesting brake fluid, and a few hours of work, I was quoted at 300 Ngultrums—about four and half dollars. I even got to keep the leftover brake fluid.