Motorcycle Day in Pokhara, Nepal
03/21/10
Within minutes of motorcycle riding outside the city, I felt my dream’s ambushed by reality: A beautiful girl holding on tight behind me, the road ahead stormy-eyed and circling tightly up mountains, freeing my clouded mind in this ceremony chiseling tires, ransacking the land, vibrating, fading my senses into one, the chamber of nerves electrified by the rumbling engine. As my skeleton infused with the metal frame, I felt the full sun, the engine’s eyes close blinded by fire, this torch of my joy, pulsating along the red network of each vein. The flesh of my skin wrapped the pistons in this feeling that only a motorcycle can bring; a man feeling one with a machine.
With each dip and turn, the shade spawned and disappeared, like black prowlers, darkening the corners, where within and through, the smells quickened – the grass scent spraying within the moisture, then the dry dust - as the midday sun cloaked through the wind, this stifling orchard of aroma, then, the smell of heat when the roadway straightened below the blue air, white clouds; this assault of radiant delight, as we passed grazing animals and small villages, smiling: Oil now, with my blood mixed in. It is only on a motorcycle where one moves the way the wind paints, creating landscapes with each brush, pulling the white reflection of the clouds downwards, across the black pond of concrete, this raw wound, consummating the appetite for feeling alive.
We had found exactly what we needed, the exhilaration of open roads.
Boxie-boo sat behind me with an ear-to-ear smile, her chin kissing my shoulder. She talked about the beautiful mountainside, which was cut in latches, appearing like giant steps used to hold rain water for farms. When swerving by cows and chickens, she pointed and laughed. Liam followed closely, sure to follow suit and honk while passing slow-moving vehicles. Horns were, after all, our only line of defense on roads that, at times, were so packed, we were needling slowly through bicycles, motorcycles, animals, tractors, trucks, street vendors, children playing games in the streets, buses and taxis, to name a few, all the while trying to avoid potholes that neared a foot deep. But it was the open roads between villages where we moved along the roadway that appeared like a blond pond, while the sun, like a Cyclops’ eye, flickered from the mirrors against my face.
The minute brown hairs rose on my arms and legs, navigating the slopes and changing tides, tilting with the winds, these arrows without stems, round and round and round they went by some uncontrolled storm of unheard sirens, the shock and shudder, bright as rage in the eyes and wild as waves in a glass reflection. All these feelings came from the exposed air, smashing my skin with a welcomed and soft agony, this onslaught of casual blasts of heat, then ice, the opposites, like a wrestle between angels and demons: Round and round and round they went. All sensations on a motorcycle are only consistent in their constant change.
While conquering larger hills, I was glad we had upgraded from yesterday’s 350cc to a 500cc Bajaj after I learned the brake lights had burnt out on the Yamaha. I remembered always to check the brakes, tires, lights and clutch before renting a motorcycle in a third world country, at a minimum. I also examined the tires. My headlight did not work, but I figured we would be back well before dark. The bigger engine cost me 50 Rupees more, about $0.60 Canadian/U.S., after bartering down on the price.
Outside the city, we pulled over to take a break from the ride, slowing down to a stop on rocks the size of softballs, foreshadowing our next challenging adventure. Boxie-boo examined our map and we tried to figure out which direction to head next. A young Nepalese boy pointed up a hill that looked like it could have been a former minefield, with giant holes and some rocks larger than our heads. “That is the way to the World Peace Pagoda,” he said, our destination for the ride.
The rocky path started with a gradual incline before coming sheer on the edge of a steep hill, with no railings. It was rough and intimidating, looking more like a dried creek bed than a road. Our silence was tense between the three of us, while layers of dust floated around our motorbikes. In the haze, a small red car continuously bottomed out down the pagoda pathway, adding the sound of scraping metal to our examination.
Liam smiled.
As I contemplated the scary road, a mosquito annoyingly buzzed around my head as I tried to read out foldup map. I tried to warn the bug that it was not worth it, but he was all “Screw you, white boy!” then landed on my arm. “Let’s dance,” he seemed to mimick. I had no choice. He went for the bite, I slapped him and now he’s dead. This act of savagely made me feel confident that I could do anything, but I was not so sure Boxie-boo was keen on tackling such a treacherous looking path.
“Should we give it a go?” I asked.
“May as well,” Liam said, as the young boy jumped on the back of his scooter.
I looked back at Boxie-boo and told her we did not have to go. I promised we’d go slowly, only if she was okay with the idea. She smiled and gave me two thumbs up, surprising me with her confidence.
Immediately heading up the road, the front tire bounced across rocks as I searched for the smoothest pathway.
The hillside to our left was near 90 degrees upright, sheer as a knife cut. I honked before taking each corner, hugging along the rock face away from the cliff edge, careful to turn slowly with little lean to avoid a back tire spin or a nasty slide. Keeping a slow pace, I was hard on the clutch, having to rev it up high when I had no choice but to bounce over large rocks and sea turtle-sized bumps. Within 15 minutes, my arms became stiff and tired, as if I had been lifting weights with one of my buddies back home. I had to stop to take a break, planting my feet while the bike skidded back a few feet.
I looked back at Liam who was busy testing the off-road capabilities of a 125cc scooter with a passenger. I always felt these little expeditions we did on our own traveling were the most important, and in some ways, the most exciting, and also, often very amusing.I watched Liam get stuck in one of the giant holes, at which point, the young boy jumped off the machine and began pushing Liam from behind in the lower back. I could hear his little engine screaming full throttle, while the exhaust fumes shot up and surround them both, as together, they tried to power the machine over the giant mounds of shaped dirt, spitting up dust, while the backtire whiplashed in both directions.
After 45 minutes of tight turns and steep inclines, we reached the trail to the pagoda. Exhausted, we stopped in a local village for some soda water, sitting in the shade of a road-side hut. Beside us, a local woman pumped water from the Earth, scrubbing her clothes clean while restedon roadway rocks, and out front of her, goats and other animals passed by being whipped along path by smiling villagers.
A short, five-minute hike led us to the pagoda, a large white monument overlooking the lake front City of Pokhara. The Buddhist stupa, as it is known in Nepal, was designed to provide a focus for people of all races and creeds with a goal to unite them in search of world peace. Balanced on a narrow ridge high above the Phewa Tal Lake, the large monument was constructed by Buddhist monks from the Japanese Nipponzan Myohoji organization. The shrine is a vantage point, which offers a beautiful view over the Annapurna range and the city. From the height of the stupa, we could see across the lake, all the way to our lodging at Phil’s Inn and realized how far we had come by motorcycle.
The pagoda was surrounded by grass, with prayer flags on its side. A golden statue of Buddha was centered up a white staircase, behind a sign requesting shoe removal. Boxie-boo found a spot in the shade, and although the hike was short, we followed suit as the heat and humidity and taken a toll on all of us. The three of us relaxed, munching on oranges. None of us were looking forward to the off-roading ride on the way down the mountain.
Back in this creek bed pathway, I almost immediately slammed on my brakes when a lone buffalo shot passed us with its legs kicking. The animal had apparently galloped in fear from our engines, and as it ran, it looked back quickly, nearly tripping over its own feet before pulling off towards a small home. I was afraid to pass the animal and was happy to lose sight of him as he turned a young corner, at which point, we realized a young boy was greeting him by pummeling the buffalo with rocks, while giggling at us from behind a tree. Apparently, a six-year-old boy was braver than me.
When the hill became extremely steep and rough, Boxie-boo begged me to be careful. She did this by digging her nails into my shoulder. I went as slow as possible, but not too slow, as a tire lock could have caused us to slide and lose control. The secret was to always keep moving and to allow the front tire to bounce over the rocks and not fight it. Any sharp turns or quick braking would have caused us to slide. I told her not to worry, as we turtle-paced along the rocks, reminding her to hold tight in sections where I had to commit, accelerate hard, to power over sections of large rubble. Thankfully, the Bajaj motorcycle had relatively strong brakes by cruiser standards and decent ground clearance. By the bottom, the muscles in my forearms were burning and my legs were turned brown with dust.
Back on the highway, the uneven and poorly maintained pavement felt smooth as snow, both soft and welcoming, after 45 minutes of rattling metal and tire-spitting rocks. It was glorious!
Cruising together, I realized we had become travelers hidden in a stranger’s landscape, blending in on our small machines, the locals’ most common way to travel. Many Nepalese seemed to not notice our foreign faces (though they often thought Boxie-boo was Nepalese anyways) while riding. They simply honked and stayed focused on the treacherous roadway. Unlike walking, even when riding at the pace of a crawl through pedestrians, we were no longer sale’s targets. On the motorcycle, no one begged us for money, asked us to buy their goods or offered us any services for money. It was freedom from more than the busy streets. It was freedom from being viewed as a walking ATM machine. To belong: This rare feeling we came to cherish whenever it happened on our trip around the world.
We decided to ride all day and made three more stops - a late lunch, Devi’s Falls and a Tibetan refugee village.
After paying the 20 Rupee entrance fee per person to the falls, we left fast, only staying long enough to split an orange between the three of us. This famous sight for us was about as exciting as watching a toilet flush. By Canadian standards, Devi’s Falls was an average-sized creek. It was beautiful, but tiny, only a meter or two tall and a couple feet wide.
After lunch, we rode back up the mountain highway with no destination in mind, the best kind of riding, simply keen to flow smoothly through the hills, refreshing our heated bodies in the wind. Every corner was a new viewpoint and we stopped occasionally for photographs. We met friendly locals at some stops, including a pretty young girl, maybe seven, dressed in a traditional white garment covered in blue flowers. Liam gave her an orange and she ran away excited to gather her friends, as if she had spotted Big Foot. Within minutes, we were celebrities, surrounded by young kids who, being many miles outside Pokhara, may have never had foreign visitors to their village before. We had to leave, unfortunately, as the sun began to move behind the mountains and my bike did not have a working headlight and had to be returned by 6 p.m. With one last stop, we braved a visit to the aggression sales town of the Tibetan refugee village.
The Tibetan community looked like a long motel room, covered in Tibetan prayer flags. We were the only tourists in sight, and as a result, we were offered cultural items from all directions. I felt like a male supermodel that had just walked into an all girls’ boarding school. The saleswomen’s’ voices surrounded all of us, making them all in comprehensible and simply one sound of female yelping.
Trying to be fair, we searched each stand individually, comparing prices and items, all the while being watched by a group of 20-plus eager saleswomen, who instead of taking turns, started by yelling at us all at the same time. We walked quietly at first, feeling nervous by so much attention, before becoming aggressive with bartering, raising our voices with theirs. In the end, the three of us all bought a couple gifts for some homies back in Canada. Many unsuccessful women yelled angrily, making it perfectly clear that they were upset we only bought from certain stands. They screamed sentences like “No fair!,” “What about me?”, “I sell nothing today!,” trying to guilt trip us into more sales. If you believe everything they say, salespeople in Nepal would lead you to believe they spend all day, every day, simply selling nothing. Yet for some reason, they never give up.
Boxie-boo loves to shop so she stayed a bit longer, armed with 100 Rupees, while I sneaked away to play keep-up soccer with Tibetan monks. Liam left to grab a cool drink at a small restaurant, or maybe he was playing hide-and-seek by himself. I’ll never know for certain. What I do know is this: The boys had lost patient shopping within 15 minutes, yet Boxie-boo persevered, ready to barter down to get everything she wanted.
The rain kicked in suddenly and we rode into town to discover Pokhara was again in darkness, the same as every night for most hours, without power. Drenched in sweat and feverish from the heat, I had dampened my shorts and t-shirt in the sink in order to cool myself to be able to somewhat sleep. This time around, the electricity came on at about 1 a.m., waking me up mid-sweat by powering the light switches we had tried to turn on hours earlier. And in this moment, something glorious happened: The ceiling fan began to spin, refreshing the humid room with cool air.
“It feels like I am having my first Slurpee,” Boxie-boo said, while I continually whispered “Yes!” with my hands towards the fan. The air whirl pooled across our bodies laid on top of the blankets, bringing me peace momentarily. Then things changed. Instantly. The light illuminated cockroaches on the wall, changing Boxie-boo’s focus and sending me to work. I unstuck my sweaty back from the sheets to chase bugs and throw them out the window (I hate needlessly killing them), sure to search every nook and cranny while the bosswoman criticized my routine.
An hour later, my sleep was interrupted by the sound of an engine cutting, the power diminishing, slowing the ceiling fan to a stop. Instead of crying, I could not help but laugh. At least even if the insects returned, there would have been no way to see them, and thus, no reason for Boxie-boo to panic. It was time for sweet dreams, the group of us: Boxie-boo, the cockroaches and myself.
That’s all for now.
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