From Himalayan Roads: Chapter One - The Gods Made Me Do It

Some context: I really don’t know what I’m doing.

The dream of traversing the Himalayas on a motorcycle hit me suddenly and irrevocably when I had just settled into my life in Bhutan. I hadn’t been there but two months when euphoric flashes of Nepali peaks, coupled with nightmarish images of frenetic, dirty Indian cities, began keeping me up at night. As I began researching the feasibility of such a plan, a few limits surfaced. But limits are good, encouraging even; they indicate that adventure is afoot.

Limit One: If I bought a motorcycle in Bhutan, I wouldn’t be able to take it out of the country. Since my plan would take me through West Bengal, Sikkim, Nepal, Himachal Pradesh, Ladakh, and Kashmir, I’d need a bike with Indian plates and registration. In Bhutan, especially in the remote areas of the east, coming across such a bike was nearly impossible.

Limit Two: I didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle. Some might argue that this should be considered Limit One in terms of importance. I beg to differ. If I couldn’t attain a bike, my ability to operate one would be irrelevant. I have no access to a helicopter either, so does it matter if I can fly one or not? I was sure that if the perfect bike somehow became manifest, I could learn to ride it. I was encouraged by the sage wisdom of a friend of mine who, pondering the idea, told me: “Even stupid people can ride motorcycles.”

As if a sign from the gods (Hindu or tantric Buddhist, I know not) the “ideal” bike did exist. In 2014, another foreign teacher residing in eastern Bhutan traveled to Guwahati, India to buy a 2012, 223cc, Hero Karizma. There he registered it and got Assamese plates. He used it for a year to explore the more remote regions of Bhutan. When he left in 2015, he sold it to another foreign teacher, Holly, living in western Bhutan. She rarely used it, and it sat at the Bhutan Canada Foundation office collecting dust. When she sold the bike to me for five hundred dollars, I could hardly believe my luck. There it was, the perfect bike. And it was all mine.

Oh shit. Limit Two.

Signs from the gods.

I picked up the bike in the middle of Bhutan, in the dusty, alpine town of Bumthang, famous for its rock-hard cheese, its Swiss-influenced Hefeweissen beer, and the copious amounts of wild marijuana growing all around town (the locals know it as “pig feed”; the pigs think it’s great).

A few more limits surfaced upon reception of the bike.

“How do you start it?” I asked Holly.

The looked at me skeptically, brows furled. “Do you know how to ride?”

“Theoretically,” I replied.

I had studied several videos online, and had, in fact, ridden a motorcycle once, five years ago. It was an 800+cc sport bike that a gung-ho, Marine friend of mine had told me to give a shot. The ride lasted all of an hour, mostly with me shooting down Denver side streets revving dangerously high in first gear, white-knuckled and unable to release the throttle because of the instinct to grip down when terrified. I dropped the bike twice, which I never confessed to the Marine; he kept a handgun on his coffee table and live grenades on his bookshelf.

After some skeptical tutelage from Holly, I had two days to learn how to ride on the Bumthang streets before I would take the bike the two-day journey back to eastern Bhutan. It was monsoon season, so the roads were slick with rain and the characteristic Bumthang dust turned to a thick mud. Despite the conditions, Bumthang proved to be a perfect learning ground. The road had very little traffic and was yet to fall victim to the road expansion construction that had mangled many parts of the national highway. I wended through pine forests fecund with moisture, up to prominent fortresses and hidden monasteries, and after two days I felt that I was ready for the challenge of a cross-country trip.

Again the gods were in my favor. Over the course of the two-day journey, it only rained briefly, right as I arrived home. Though I had to fjord a few rivers, slip through some mud-trenches, dodge cattle, and pull off several leeches from my legs, the ride was mostly uneventful and I made it home unscathed. It turned out to be true: Stupid people can ride motorcycles.

I’ve had the bike for six months now. My luck lasted as long as those initial days. For the next few months my bike sat stationary due to either a reoccurring flat or awaiting new front brake pads that took five weeks to arrive from China to the village I was living in in Bhutan. During those fleeting moments when the bike would work, other problems befell the poor stallion—a loose chain that popped off repeatedly on the way to Rangshikar, a tendency to stick in neutral when shifting down to first gear, a bunk battery that couldn’t hold a charge.

But when the gods offer a gift it’s best to take it, whatever the condition. There is something to be learned from it. I’ve repaired the puncture (five times), bought a new tire (to avoid further punctures), and fixed the front brake. I can kick start the bike when the battery is dead and once I’m in a place that has new batteries on hand, I’ll gladly replace the old one. I have enough experience now, I think, to start the journey. I’ve given the bike the moniker of Solivagant, a word that I’m told means “to wander alone.” My plans will assuredly give me plenty of time alone, and I have no real itinerary, no schedule. I will wander these Himalayas and see what comes. My contract has ended in Bhutan and I have six months to kill before starting work at an international school somewhere in the world. The first limits are gone, testament to their nature. If you don’t really believe in them as limits, they can easily be surmounted. But new ones have surfaced: What will the chaos of Indian traffic be like, especially for a novice like me? How will I navigate a road system that lacks consistent signage? How will I carry the things I need to survive? What will I do when Solivagant becomes cantankerous once again and breaks down? Is this safe?

And, as is the plague of the wanderer, other existential questions have started to arise too: What purpose does this adventure serve? When will I grow up, settle down, commit to something stable? What is the effect of such long-term loneliness?

So I’ll start the journey hoping for both Solivagant’s integrity and for answers to these questions. Both hopes are guaranteed to fail. But there are many chances ahead for a smooth ride, for new discoveries, and if not for answers, then for many more questions that will be compelling and worthy. All of this will happen, gods willing.