On "Buying A Bullet" in India
royalenfield.com
by Lou Hawthorne
9/02/96
As I walked out the entrance of my hotel into the pandemonium of Delhi, I realized I had no idea how to accomplish my goal for the day: buying a motorcycle - a 500cc Enfield to be exact. Although I had budgeted for buying a bike "just in case", I thought I'd be using the one Asoka left for me when he fled to Thailand to recuperate, but when I finally got a look at his bike yesterday, I was disappointed. First it turned out to be a 350cc rather than the 500cc model. While the numbers officially describe the displacement of the engine in cubic centimeters, the models actually have several important distinctions. The 500 is heavier, more powerful, and has better brakes - making it more like the beefy Japanese bikes I learned on, as well as more stable in the slipstream of buses and trucks. What really killed my interest in Asoka's bike, however, was a pair of leaks - oil and gas; certainly repairs could be made but it just seemed like a bad omen.
An auto-rickshaw driver pulled up in front of me, asking with his eyebrows if I wanted to get in. I've learned that this means the driver knows virtually zero English, which is not necessarily a bad thing, as I've yet to have an extended conversation with a rickshaw driver about anything other than my paying more money than the agreed-upon price. I said, "Motorcycle!" and pantomimed some throttle action just to be clear. He shook his head in the way I've learned means yes (have I mentioned this is a confusing place?), stated a price, which I accepted without haggling - I had no idea where we were going - and off we went, bouncing and weaving through Delhi traffic. I was dubious whether this approach would bare fruit, but about 10 minutes later we were cruising slowly through a district composed entirely of scooter and motorcycle sale, rental, and accessory shops. Jackpot.
As I walked from shop to shop, I noticed that flimsy Japanese bikes were actually more common than Enfields, and of those shops that carried Enfields, not all carried the 500. However, people were friendly and sales pressure was almost non-existent; I also noticed a curious calm to the shops and a different set of operating assumptions compared with the other types of Indian stores I've visited. Carpet salesmen for instance ignore the question of whether one needs or wants a carpet, believing that carpet sales response is a simple function of the degree of hounding applied. In Karol Bagh - which I learned is the name of this district - there seems to exist an awareness that motorcycles are not for everyone, and that serious customers will come forward on their own.
A very brown boy - no more than 14 - wearing only shorts and riding a beautiful all-chrome Enfield pulled over next to me and reached into his engine with a bare hand to make an adjustment. I asked if he knew the way to Inder Motors, the place Asoka recommended. He spoke no English, but clearly knew the word "Inder" and pointed towards a certain dark and narrow alley, and after a moment's hesitation, I plunged in. After only a few yards, the noise of Delhi dropped away, blocked by the tall, soot-covered buildings to either side of the alley. Every few yards there was small shop the size of an average American bathroom, each one providing a different motorcycle-related industrial service, generally with just one or two people involved. I passed a scooter-tire retread shop, a fender-painting shop, a brake shop, a seat upholstery shop; each worker looked up and smiled warmly, as if only a friend could possibly walk down this charmed alley. A few times I stopped and asked, "Inder?" - and they would point and say, "Lolly shop!"
Inder Motors was situated on a corner with assorted Enfields parked around the property line. On an elevated cement platform - open on three sides - several grease-covered Indian boys were working on a pair of partially-dismantled bikes, with a pure Zen-like immersion in their task. Standing over them silently watching was a red-turbaned Sikh with a dark, grease-covered jump-suit. He introduced himself warmly as Lali Singh - all Sikhs have the last name "Singh", which gives first names extra significance - and after hearing what I wanted, he showed me two 500cc bikes, a '94 and a '95, both a metallic gray-green. The '95 was in much better shape. I noticed a very clean and nicely painted Enfield a few bikes down and asked, "Is this a '95 too?"
Lali laughed. "This is a '64. On its way to a customer in Denmark." I nodded - of course, a '64. I looked at one bike and then the other. They seemed identical.
I told Lali I was very interested in the '95, and he led me into his office to discuss the matter over Limcas (a Fresca-like softdrink). As in the other motorcycle shops, prices were fixed quite firmly - another departure from standard practice in India - and Lali also preferred to sell the bike with a specific set of tools and spare parts - which sounded good to me. In fact, the more I dealt with Lali, the more impressed I was with his integrity - which of course brought into relief how much I distrusted - yet another form of fear - Indians in general. Throughout our discussion, Lali's dog Jennie - a young Doberman mutt - kept trying to drag a worn scooter tire nearly half her size under the small table where we were sitting, bumping our legs and barking. Lali would reach under the table - this was obviously a favorite game for both - and grab the tire, rolling it the length of the shop, with Jennie prancing after it. As a dog-lover, I could not have been more immediately at ease.
Then Lali said, "Now you test-drive the bike!" I blinked.
"You mean... now?" I looked outside at the traffic surging up and down the narrow street in front of the shop.
"Sure, sure. You test the bike - make sure it's what you want!" I thought: this is more integrity than is really called for right now.
"Here? I mean, it seems kind of busy. I'm new to this you know."
"No problem," replied Lali, "My assistant will take you someplace quiet to practice." He yelled something in Hindi and one of the older mechanics - mid twenties I'd say - came to the door. "You go with him," said Lali, turning brusquely to deal with another customer, a skinny Frenchman upset with some questionable servicing ("Ewe know eye luff zees bike, Lahlee!")
As I walked with the mechanic towards the bike I was to test, he picked up something from a chair. It was a white plastic hat, in the shape of a construction-worker's helmet, but much flimsier. It looked like something a construction worker might give his or her child so he or she could play construction.
"You don't expect me to wear that, do you?" I asked, incredulous.
"No," he replied, "This one's mine."
"Do you have a proper helmet for me - or at least another of those things?" The toy was looking better than nothing. But the mechanic shrugged in a way that meant: this is all there is, so if you want to test-drive the bike, quit whining. He started the bike and I got on back, feeling completely naked in shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals - basically what every Indian biker wears - but of course, they're all insane. Soon we were off the crowded side street and onto a major thoroughfare with every kind of vehicle imaginable merging and diverging within inches of my naked knees and baby toes. I'd like to report I was completely cool and a little bored like Charles Bronson, but the truth is I was so frightened I became numb - probably the result of a massive endorphin dump - and I watched my perceptions recede and disassociate as if seen through the back end of a telescope. I kept saying to myself, "This is a really, really bad idea,"and I noted that I was progressively doing all the things I said I would never do: first riding a motorcycle, then riding in India, then riding without protection of any kind - not even a helmet. What next, Russian Roulette?
The mechanic pulled over onto the shoulder of the thoroughfare - this was the 'someplacequiet' Lali promised? - and got off the bike, holding it up with one hand while I scooted forward. He let go and I almost fell over, the bike was so heavy. He offered me his helmet. I took it gratefully, but after a minute of wrestling with it, I handed it back - too small. I was surprised and concerned when the mechanic got on back; now I'd have to worry about killing two people. I reviewed the controls. Compared with just about every motorcycle in the world - including the ones I learned on - the Enfield brake pedal and gear shift are on the wrong sides. Furthermore, in shifting, first is up, while the other three gears are down - the reverse of other bikes. Or is it the other way round? There is no light to indicate when you're in neutral - or any other gear - as there is on many "modern" bikes.
I made my best guess as to gear, gave it a little gas and let the clutch out slowly. I accelerated smoothly along the shoulder of the road, heading straight for a disabled auto-rickshaw. I either had to merge or stop, so - Yoohoo! Mr. Death! - I merged into the torrent of metal and smoke. I drove along in first for awhile until I glanced behind me and saw a truck bearing down. I put in the clutch, tinkered with the shift pedal, and then - second! The mechanic tapped me on the shoulder to indicate I should change lanes and make an upcoming right turn to double back on the thoroughfare. While I was calculating the odds of surviving such a maneuver, the turn came and went. After I had driven the absolute test-drive minimum - maybe half a mile - I pulled over onto the shoulder again.
"No drive back?" asked the mechanic as I climbed off the bike.
"No," I replied, smiling at his absurd toy construction hat, "Bike is good. You drive back." I don't remember any of the ride back, except for vague surprise and welling gratitude to all 33 million Hindu gods as we pulled up safely at Inder Motors.
Sitting out front was an attractive blonde woman, and I almost asked if she was waiting for a friend - a subtle sexist assumption that she couldn't be there for a motorcycle-related purpose. I caught myself and asked instead if she was shopping for an Enfield.
"No, mine is being serviced," she replied politely. We introduced ourselves; she was German and her name was Ute. We chatted for awhile; she ran a restaurant in Goa and had been riding motorcycles in India for years. I asked her what sort of protection she wears on the road; she looked at me like I was some sort of animal she didn't recognize. "I wear what I'm wearing!" A thin blouse, baggy cotton pants, and sandals.
"No gloves, no boots - no helmet??" I asked.
"Too hot. And what's the point?"
"You aren't worried about accidents?"
"If you're careful, it's perfectly safe."
"I keep hearing about the truckers - how they don't give a shit about anyone or anything, how they'll run you off the road without a second thought..."
"Bof!" she replied - that wonderful sound Germans make when they want to dismiss you and your argument both, "This is India. People watch out for each other. Especially the truckers. They are pussycats! They see you are alone and a Westerner, riding like an Indian - they will take care of you." No meine hbsches fraulein, they see you with your long legs astride an Enfield - knowing full well that respectable Indian women ride side-saddle - with your long blonde mane blowing behind you and your sheer blouse and baggy pants billowing in every direction - of course they watch out for you, kilometer after kilometer, their exits passing unnoticed as they follow you to Goa and back.
What I want to know is, how will they treat me?
(Courtsey:Hell's Buddhas) |
